With You Till the End of the Line
by Gemminycricket
Summary: Spanning from the 1930s to the modern day, this story changes POV from chapter to chapter and follows Steve and Bucky through their life as it becomes complicated by loss, pain, war, torture, mind control, and the aftermath of it all.
1. Chapter 1: Stifled (Bucky's POV)

It was time.

Bucky had been itching to move out ever since his younger siblings had become old enough to develop lives of their own. It no longer sufficed to house six people in a tiny three bedroom home with one bathroom between them, forever pushing and shoving for more room. Bucky had a proclivity for cozy spaces, finding them a greater comfort than somewhere expansive with four walls that didn't feel tight enough to contain him. But this had gone beyond even his limits. The close quarters had always been inconvenient but had since become stifling. Bucky felt he knew far more about his family than he ever wished to, and he was sure they felt the same way. Privacy had lost all meaning, and they couldn't help but slowly start resenting one another because of it.

The once healthy relationship he had with his sister, the eldest of the Barnes children after Bucky, whom he roomed with, had been tarnished by all kinds of trivial matters. Being a light sleeper, she hated his late work hours, often waking and tossing a pillow at him in frustration. Despite this being a far too regular occurrence, Bucky had yet to get used to tiptoeing in the dark only to be suddenly hit in the face and had found that down felt remarkably solid when thrown. He hated coming home only to trip over her mass of clutter, sidestepping her hoard of worn books and sewing equipment, amongst a number of fragile knickknacks, many of which he had broken. The tight space was difficult to navigate, and his efforts to do so quietly were only ever met with her startled rage and that damn pillow to the face or groin. The next morning, she would thrust whatever thing his ass had broken by falling onto it against his chest.

He couldn't even pretend to be sorry anymore. He had no room to himself; nowhere to relax.

In fact, he had little room for _anything_ personal.

Bucky felt robbed of his own life, unable to see whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Particularly as his idea of company was less than appropriate. He had gotten to an age where there was a lot less to question and a lot more to worry about. A lot more to keep to himself, which was near impossible to do in a house this size. He worried that his family was beginning to have suspicions, considering the few times he had come home with the scent of another man's cologne on his clothes, his lips red and swollen from feverish kissing.

Very little escaped their notice these days.

They called him out for a lot less, so it was only a matter of time until they accused him of something far more severe. He didn't want that. It would be bad for them, and a lot worse for him. Their relationships were strained enough as it was without this truth laying bare between them. Bucky had long since decided it was best he move out before they could start asking questions.

But, Bucky didn't have much. He had very little money to his name, and even less in terms of property. He would be without bedsheets to put on the bed he didn't actually have, and eating off the same paper plate far too many times before giving in and throwing it away. So much of what he had was from his childhood and was intended to be passed down from child to child once they'd officially grown out of it. Anything that belonged solely to him was artificial; various books and records he and Steve had collected over the years. But what good was that if he had no place to sleep or pots and pans to cook with? He had no evidence to support his transition into adulthood.

There were long periods of time in which he was the sole earner for the family, stepping in for his father who was sometimes unfit to work. Bucky paid for the roof over their heads and the food on their table and usually offered whatever was left to his siblings, hoping to satisfy their needs and keep them readied for school. It often felt as though his sacrifices weren't greatly appreciated. A verbal thank you was a rarity that he had long since learned not to expect. Deep down, he knew they valued him and respected that the lucky, though not entirely stable, lives they lived came at the cost of his future. Bucky remembered that they loved him, and he was happy to give them what he had when they needed him most. But even when his father was back at work and the stresses of income were freed from Bucky's shoulders, all his earnings didn't reflect how hard, and how often, he worked.

Steve had often urged him to quit one of his three jobs, claiming that his bosses were ripping him off, making him work for far less than he deserved. Sometimes Steve got so worked up about it, grabbing Bucky by the arms and shaking him—or as close to shaking as his skinny arms would allow. Even just thinking about it made Steve a fierce bundle of hostility, ranting aloud to Bucky's worn ears about the unfairness of it all. It wasn't that Bucky disagreed. He knew better than anyone how much he ought to be paid, but he also knew it would do no good to argue or to quit. He couldn't afford to stand up for himself. It was so little money, but it was still money nonetheless.

And it would be just enough for him and Steve to rent a place of their own.

Though of course, Steve was unwilling to move, as usual fighting the suggestion that he could use some help. Bucky knew Steve could handle himself. That's what worried him. Steve could handle himself, but at what cost? He made even less income than Bucky, always struggling to find any place willing to hire a guy his size with all his evident health problems. He was living alone in his childhood home, trying to somehow keep the power on while his mother was in the hospital. Steve sacrificed the resemblance of a tolerable lifestyle wherever he could, convinced that the money was better spent on her rather than on himself. His skinny stature threatened to collapse at any given moment, just dying for a decent meal, and it took all of Bucky's will to convince him to join his family for dinner most nights.

For Steve, handling himself usually meant suffering in silence, and Bucky wasn't ignorant to that fact.

And he refused to allow it.

Steve could be as stubborn as he liked, but Bucky wasn't going to give in so easily. He had pestered him for months about moving but all arguments had been dismissed with little more than a prideful shake of his head and an almost childish scuff of his foot on the ground. Sometimes, Steve had argued back, saying he needed to be there when his mum was in better health. He had to keep the place organised and clean in her absence.

Bucky hadn't wanted to bring up the probability of her survival, so he didn't. After all, they hadn't known anyone to survive TB, and at this stage, she was already receiving the same care as hospice patients. Bucky was fond of Sarah, she had always been nothing but kind to him over the years and her decline in health concerned him as if she were his own mother. Her hospitalisation had hit Steve hard, leaving Bucky to try and console him. It was no easy feat; he already suspected the eventual outcome, and optimism didn't come naturally to him. Whenever he couldn't bring himself to share words of hope, he forced himself to keep his mouth shut. But this never escaped Steve's notice. He always knew what these silences meant, and he would cling to Bucky as if he would otherwise fall into the void.

Bucky could only hold him. There wasn't much else he could do in times like these. He just put his arms around him and rested his chin in the soft nest of Steve's blonde hair. He'd gently breathe in the familiar scent of Steve's shampoo and brace his arm with his hand, caressing the smooth skin beneath it with his thumb. Bucky somehow felt equally as comforted in these moments. There was something so safe in being held by Steve and holding him in return. Time would briefly lose all meaning, and everything would momentarily fall into place. Bucky could never resist giving into this graceful limbo, this pure nothingness that never expected anything of them. He found there was nothing to fear, but then Steve always withdrew and the illusion was shattered—there was plenty to fear. Steve's hands always pulled away with no sense of urgency, trailing slowly from Bucky's shoulders to his fingertips as he gathered himself and turned his embarrassed face away in hiding.

Always trying to stay strong in the face of anguish.

Bucky saw through it. He always had, even when they were just kids. He knew Steve better than anyone.

When Sarah eventually passed, Bucky again had to insist that they live together. It didn't matter how little money they had between them, they would find a way to make it work. It would be far easier to do it together than alone. Bucky needed to get out of his house, and he felt that Steve should get out of his, too.

They went back there after the funeral and it felt sombre and cold. Bucky had visited not even three days prior to Sarah's death and since then nothing had changed; nothing had been moved. Everything remained in its rightful place but it all felt wrong. It was a ghost house. Bucky found himself wanting to leave just as soon as they arrived.

He stood shivering in the living room, near convinced that something conniving lingered there waiting for them. Bucky wasn't a believer of the paranormal and was never bothered by the paranormal fiction he had read, but he couldn't deny feeling the similar sensation to that described in the pages. The cold, stagnant air tickling his neck, the hairs on his arms standing on end, a weight like stone dropping quickly to the pit of his stomach, a feverish race to his heartbeat and a stunned dizziness that sent his world reeling.

He knew Steve felt the change, too.

Bucky watched as he moved mindlessly from one room to the next, seemingly at a loss as to what he went into them for. His whole body drifted as though he were made of nothing—he was already pretty close to it; all skin and bones and not much else. Steve looked far too small in this suddenly too big house. Bucky was almost sure that Steve would evaporate into thin air, or fall between the fine cracks in the floorboards; maybe even disintegrate like blowing a dandelion into the wind.

It wasn't impossible for him to walk to nowhere, never to return. What did he have to come back to now?

"Steve. Please. You don't have to stay here," Bucky insisted again, though they'd just had this conversation outside. He knew it did no good to beat a dead horse, but he felt he had no choice but to try. His desperation compelled him to push until Steve surrendered.

Steve continued to fade between rooms like a cold gust of air. "I swear you don't listen to me when I talk, Buck," he sighed heavily.

"You know I do," Bucky said, "I just don't often agree with you, is all."

Steve said nothing and brought a tense fist to his lips, cradling his elbow with his other arm. He stared forlornly out the window, completely lost to the world outside. Already, he was suffering beneath the burden of this godforsaken house and all that was now missing from it.

"Look, you can stay with me and my folks until we find somewhere else to live," Bucky urged him to give in. "You'd be doing me a huge favour just by considering it."

Steve slowly turned and sifted through what had once been a neat pile of papers. Had there been any order to them, it was gone now. Bucky saw some of Steve's distracted doodlings etched on some of the pages, the lead smudging underneath Steve's worried fingers. His beautiful work—which he often kept to himself—was being ruined and he didn't mind. He'd found there were more important things to worry about. Bucky took the pages from him and carefully neatened them, setting them back down where they belonged, hoping the drawings weren't beyond repair. Steve hardly seemed to notice. He turned his attention to the spaces between the couch cushions, feeling around without much success.

"Where are my keys?" he murmured to himself.

"Steve," Bucky took him by the arm, making him pause.

Steve hesitated a moment before meeting Bucky's eye. "Fine. I'm considering it," he allowed, "but I'm for sure not going anywhere tonight." He recognised the worry lingering in Bucky's gaze. "If that's alright?" he tacked on for extra measure.

Bucky wanted to push it some more, but he'd only be pushing Steve further away by doing so. So he let it drop for now, instead lowering himself to his knees and peering under the couch where he somehow knew the keys would be. He stood upright and tossed them to Steve before settling down on the sofa and propping the cushion up behind his back. If Steve wasn't going anywhere tonight, then neither was he. He loosened his tie and undid the first couple buttons of his shirt, kicking off his shoes all the while. He figured if he at least pretended to be comfortable then perhaps Steve could find the will to pretend as well.

And maybe he'd start to believe it.

It seemed to work as Steve shrugged off his second-hand suit jacket, folded it neatly over the armrest, and sat in the chair across from him. Neither of them spoke. There weren't any more words to say. They spent the night there in silence, both eventually succumbing to sleep in their respective chairs.

When Bucky woke next, it was far too dark to even be close to daybreak. It took him a moment to recognise the faint shadow of his surroundings, like the gramophone in the corner and the picture frames just barely illuminated on the mantle by the streetlights outside. He stayed where he was, unmoving, tiredly blinking into the dark and wondering what had disturbed his sleep in the first place.

And then he heard it.

The quiet sniffling coming from the small lump on the chair opposite him. It was Steve's tiny body curled up into a tight ball, crying into the material of his father's old suit jacket.

Bucky silently rose, navigated his way around the table between them, and then knelt at Steve's side. He didn't have to say anything. Steve knew he was there. A small hand felt around until it found Bucky's larger one and squeezed his fingers for all it was worth. He hadn't cried at the funeral. Bucky knew he also hadn't cried at his mother's resting place, her coffin lowered into the earth beside the father he never had the chance to know. Steve was too headstrong and eager to prove he could carry himself without help. It wasn't about his pride. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He just wanted to believe he was capable, even with the bad hand the world had dealt him.

Despite this, he was crying now. He needed Bucky, and Bucky was there. That's just how it was with them. It was how it had always been.

"I'm s—sorry," Steve breathed out, squeezing his hand again even harder.

"Don't be stupid," Bucky shushed him, "you have nothing to be sorry for. If there's a good time to cry, then this is probably it. I won't tell anyone."

"Better not."

"It's just between us… and my parents. My sister probably ought to know. And if she knows then my other siblings will know too. They'll tell all their friends, who'll, in turn, tell theirs—,"

"You're a punk," Steve sniffed and sat up, making room beside him for Bucky to sit.

"Takes one to know one."

Bucky rested his arm across the back of the couch behind Steve's head. He could feel the cold mass beside him and pulled him in closer with his other hand. If Steve hadn't immediately clung onto him, then he may have gotten up to retrieve a blanket or two. Now, there was just no moving him. Steve held on so tight that Bucky's ribs were quick to start aching and his breath felt a little thin, but he refused to argue or adjust; he wouldn't dare interrupt and plant the seed of doubt in Steve who wouldn't think to let these walls crumble again.

Steve cried for a long time. Always quiet, barely shuddering breaths. But that was more than he had allowed himself for the longest time. It was enough just to hold him and be there so he wasn't alone. Eventually, though, Steve started to slip away from him, curling up on his half of the sofa. The sounds of his gentle tears faded into sniffling and then finally that of restless slumber.

Bucky himself couldn't sleep after that. It came naturally to him to be overprotective. A fact that often drove Steve somewhat crazy. Steve wasn't quite as breakable as he appeared—as he often reminded Bucky—but he was still breakable enough to warrant a level of concern. Bucky always pulled Steve's ass from the fire and beat back anyone that dared try throwing him straight back in. No matter his good intentions, Steve ignored his limits and had a way of getting himself into trouble. It was almost a full-time job in itself to keep him in check, and it was sure to get worse from here on out.

Still, Bucky wasn't going anywhere. He cared too much to ever back out.

Now that Steve was asleep, Bucky finally got up and took a blanket from the bed upstairs, carefully draping it over him as he breathed evenly into the couch cushion. He was still restless, twitching and squirming this way and that. His quiet breaths were sometimes broken up by wretched moans and illegible murmurings Bucky was glad not to make sense of. But at least he was sleeping. Bucky was sure there were countless sleepless nights to come, ever darkening the existing bags under Steve's eyes and turning his criminally pale skin sallow. He'd lie and insist he'd slept some, if not well, but Bucky would know. He always knew.

Bucky resumed his place at his side and waited patiently for sunrise. A part of him wished it would never come.

But it did. The sun inevitably rose and filtered through the window into Steve's closed eyes, waking him from what would likely be the last decent sleep he'd have for a while. Bucky silently cursed it as Steve sat up and ran a disgruntled hand through his hair. Almost all the redness had faded from his face, aside from the palest tint of pink around his nose. The tears had completely dried but the faint swelling around his eyes betrayed the fact that he had ever been crying to begin with. Steve said nothing about it, and neither did Bucky.

"Breakfast?" Bucky suggested, already getting up and making his way to the kitchen.

The pantry was horrendously bare. Bucky didn't dare ask what exactly Steve had been living off of since he suspected that he wouldn't approve of the answer. Still, they couldn't suffice with nothing, not on a day like this. It did no good to mourn on an empty stomach. Steve followed after him to try a hand at helping but Bucky simply shrugged him off.

"Sit," he instructed.

Steve was clearly too tired to argue for once in his life, so he did as he was told and slumped down into the nearest chair. He gazed ahead without seeing much of anything. Bucky could tell by the flatness of his usually deep blue eyes. Still, he let him stare and got to work finding something to eat. Eventually, he had to settle on somewhat stale bread and made his signature burnt toast straight from the stovetop. They didn't have the luxury of coffee to wash it down with so he settled for pouring glasses of milk.

He set the food and drinks down and sat across from Steve, wordlessly nudging his leg with his foot under the table. Steve startled and caught his eye, momentarily at a loss as to what he should say or do or think.

Bucky felt a stab in his gut. It killed him to see Steve this way.

He clenched his jaw and tore off the crusts of his toast, eating it slowly without any enjoyment. He wished he was somehow capable of conjuring up something—anything—better than this. Steve deserved more. Hell, he _needed_ more. Bucky could only give all that he had and hope that it at least meant something. Steve nodded his head in a quiet appreciation and dutifully ate the food provided for him, downing the blackened bread with his milk before standing to clear the table.

It was a far too silent affair without a single word being uttered throughout. So it came as a shock to hear Steve's broken voice echoing from the direction of the sink.

"You can go home. Get some sleep," Steve said, his back still facing him.

Bucky stood up and opened his mouth to argue, but before he could get a word out, Steve cut him off.

"I'll be fine, Buck, really," he promised.

Standing behind him, Bucky carefully neatened Steve's unkempt hair and tucked in the back of his shirt where it had come loose from his waistband.

"You really have me convinced," Bucky sighed sarcastically.

"We both knew this was going to happen. And before you say anything, I appreciate you pretending otherwise for as long as you did." Steve turned to face him. "It's just… it's hard right now, and it's going to be for a while. But I knew and I had time to come to terms with it. So I'm not going to fall apart in the few hours you're gone before you inevitably ignore me and come back."

Bucky quirked a brief, saddened grin. "I already told you, I don't ignore you—,"

"You just don't agree with me very often," Steve interjected, reflecting that same grin, "I know. You're horribly stubborn. It's impossible making you agree with anything."

"Pot calling the kettle black, Steve Rogers."

"Don't make me fight you," Steve warned.

"Fine, fine. I'll go," Bucky quickly surrendered, "just because I know you have a habit of fighting anything that moves."

"Only when it's warranted," Steve sniffed stubbornly and walked Bucky to the door.

Bucky didn't want to leave. He hated the way this house made him feel, and he hated seeing what being there did to Steve. Bucky would endure it if only to lighten the load for him—to make it just that little more bearable. But he could see that he needed some time to be alone. Not for too long, but just long enough. As he had said, Bucky would inevitably be back in a matter of hours, and he would crash on his couch again if need be. He would come and go as often as Steve needed him to.

Still, he couldn't help but hesitate on the stairs, turning back to look at Steve standing in his doorway. His eyes expressed without words how sorry he was, and urged him to remember the promise he had made—to be there for him till the end of the line.

"I know, Buck, I know," Steve said with a soft smile.

Bucky smiled back at him, just briefly; the upturn to his lips there one second and gone the next. And then he left, satisfied, but still longing to come back.

Bucky could hear the shouting and the soft thuds of fists against flesh. It was a sound he heard far too often and knew far too well. It only ever meant trouble. And wherever there was trouble, Steve was sure to be in the thick of it. It was the one and only curse of being Steve's friend. Bucky could pull him out of trouble time and time again but there was just no keeping him from getting into it in the first place.

God knew Bucky had tried.

* * *

He continued down the alleyway, following the sounds of a body surely being pummelled half to death, and quickened his pace when he was close enough to hear who he assumed was Steve spitting blood. This, too, was a sound Bucky was horribly familiar with. He rounded the corner to see two men standing with their backs to him, their shoulders broad and their bruised fists clenched at either side. Steve was little more than a sack of blood and bones on the ground, but he was already pushing himself up to his knees to go another round.

What had Bucky done to fall for such an idiot?

"Two against one hardly seems fair," Bucky said.

The two men turned, their faces contorted into expressions of hatred. Not that they had any reason yet to hate him. They clearly liked any opportunity to punch in another face. Bucky felt that it was too early in the day for such things. His face, as punch-able as it may be, wasn't having any of it. And Steve's had had plenty.

"I count two of you," one of the men spat a large, wet gob to his side.

Bucky eyed the spit with a wrinkled nose and took note not to step in that general direction if he could so help it. "You're making your mother proud, counting all by yourself."

"You calling me stupid?" The man straightened and stalked a few steps forward before the other caught his arm. Bucky was bigger than Steve, his appearance had a way of making lesser men second guess themselves. Little did they know that it wasn't in Bucky's nature to fight—that was all Steve.

"Stupid is a harsh word. I'm just saying that you're especially dim," Bucky said plainly.

Steve was still struggling to get up, propped up on one arm and holding his ribs with the other. It would be a miracle if nothing was broken. Despite the blood caking his face, Steve's brilliant blue eyes were dark with a quiet fury. These men had turned their sights onto his best friend, and there was no way Steve was going to let this stand. Bucky cast him a meaningful look that told him to stay down.

But when did Steve ever listen?

Steve grabbed the bigger of the two men by the ankle and received a prompt kick to the face for his troubles. Exasperated, Bucky stepped forward, took the man by the shoulder, waited for him to turn, and then punched him directly in the nose. He stumbled back with his hands clasped over his face, blood trickling through his fingers. The second man took a swing in retaliation. Bucky sidestepped, felt the breeze of their fist across his cheek, and then threw a punch of his own. It landed across his jaw, forcing him back a step before Bucky grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him in for a quick knee to the groin. It had always been effective, and this time was no exception. He fell immediately to his knees, groaning in pain. Bucky readjusted the hem of his shirt before flexing the slight ache out of his knuckles. He stepped aside as the two men finally scurried out of the alleyway, leaving him and Steve alone. Steve crawled back up to his knees, watching them disappear with boundless resentment.

"You're nothing but trouble, you know that?" Bucky carefully took Steve's hand and hoisted him to his feet. Convinced he couldn't stand on his own, Bucky lifted Steve's arm around him, crouching a little to try matching his height.

Steve pushed him off with a tenacious shake of his head and gestured down the alleyway. "They were being disrespectful! Nobody was stopping them, Buck. I couldn't just stand by—,"

"Yes, you could have. And you should have," Bucky interrupted, "it's not your job to take on every piece of scum you pass."

"Then whose job is it? Because nobody said or did anything, they just let it happen."

"Because they're smart enough to avoid confrontation until it's absolutely called for," Bucky told him, "somebody would have stepped in, when and if it came to that. But you? You just can't wait that long."

Steve dabbed hopelessly at the blood drying over his split lip. His sleeve came away red, creating a new stain where the previous ones still hadn't completely washed out. Bucky's furious expression softened. He didn't pity Steve—Steve didn't need or want it. But it was impossible to stay mad at him, knowing he did what he did with nothing but the best of intentions. He took the kinds of beatings stronger men cried from. There was something admirable about that, however twisted it may be.

"I get it, Steve, I do. But one of these days someone's going kill you," Bucky said sternly, taking him by the shoulders and making sure he was listening. "I'm not going get there fast enough and they're going kill you. Do you understand me?"

"I don't need your rescue, Buck," Steve mumbled, but he knew that wasn't exactly true.

"Yeah, but I need yours," Bucky sighed. "What the hell am I supposed to do without you?"

Steve's broken face hinted at the weakest of smiles. Bucky knew that if it weren't for the painful cut in his lip, Steve would be grinning from ear to ear. He knew Bucky was only half humouring him, and that was the half that he could allow. If he ever felt coddled, Steve either backed off or fought against it. Nine times out of ten he would choose the latter. It helped for Bucky's care and attention to be subtle; as long as he wanted to avoid Steve's tiny wrath. He may be small, but he somehow carried a temperament that still managed to amaze Bucky. There were probably few other people that could withstand it.

"Thank you," Steve said finally, admitting defeat for once.

"You're welcome," Bucky said, "I'd tell you not to do it again, but I know I'd be wasting my breath."

"I don't mean to drag you into these things."

"I have a way of dragging myself into them anyway. You never ask me to fight for you, Steve. I choose to."

"You're better at it than me," Steve granted. It was as close to a compliment as he was going to give as long as he was blood-soaked and sore.

"I've had enough practice," Bucky pointed out.

Steve leaned on him as they entered the street. It was decided without question that they would go back to Steve's place. Bucky's mum was bound to coddle him and fuss over his wounds, applying ointments and bandages against every word begging her not to. It might have amused Bucky if it weren't for all the bruises and cuts littering Steve's pale skin. It was hard to laugh when the truth of the matter wasn't at all funny. When his mum worried, Bucky couldn't help but worry too. This was easier. And it was a shorter walk, which was evidently necessary as Steve slowed and folded almost completely in two. Bucky's offers to carry him had been met by a patronised scoff. Still, Steve leaned into Bucky and allowed him to help lift some of the weight.

The stairs were a little tricky, but at least there was a handrail for Steve to hold onto. Bucky took the spare key from under the cinderblock and opened the door for him, guiding him inside and locking up after them. Steve collapsed into the nearest chair and tested the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He winced and lowered his hand, not quite daring to touch anywhere else.

Bucky flicked the light switch but nothing happened. He tried a few times to no avail before giving up and opening the curtains instead. This house never caught much light. It seemed to catch even less these days; everything looked especially dim ever since Sarah's funeral a few weeks prior. Every time Bucky visited, he hoped something would be different, but it was always the same. Steve barely lived here, or at least that's how it seemed. He was living a shell of a life in a barren house he so clearly despised. But now didn't seem the right time to say as much to Steve.

Bucky hadn't given up pestering him to move out, but he decided to put it on pause for now until he was in better shape. Lately, though, that seemed an impossibility. Steve was never in better shape. To be fair, he had never been in too great a shape even at the best of times. But since Sarah's passing, Steve ate less, rarely slept, and got into more fights than Bucky could even count. The last few weeks had felt like a lifetime. He didn't know what more he could do to make it right.

Perhaps there was no right anymore. Steve just wasn't the same.

Bucky took a clean cloth, dampened it, and got to work cleaning the blood from Steve's face. He had gotten plenty of practice at this too; more practice than he had ever wanted. He knew how to be gentle, and how to wipe around the nose just so to avoid aggravating the bruise there. The lips were a delicate area, it didn't take much pressure to reopen the cut and flood the cloth with fresh blood. But Bucky knew the exact way to dab at the pale pink of Steve's lips to keep the wound sealed. Whatever it took not to inflict more pain.

Steve watched him all the while with his one good eye as the other continued to swell shut. It would be a while until he'd properly be able to see again. A horrible part of Bucky thought _'good riddance'_ but he quickly dismissed it. It wasn't fair and he knew it. Steve searched him for any sign of his anger, but he had gotten good at hiding it. He knew how to bury it beneath other, less complicated feelings. He knew Steve was unhappy and that he hadn't been able to pay the power bill which meant he spent his nights trying and failing to sleep in the dark of his own personal hell. Stuff like that did things to a man, even ones as headstrong as Steve. Were it Bucky in his place, he was sure he would make all kinds of bad decisions, too.

Still, he hoped time would make things easier. Hope was all he had left.

"Bucky?" Steve asked gently.

Bucky hummed in acknowledgment, turning his attention to a particularly nasty gash through Steve's eyebrow.

"I don't have any boxes."

Bucky blinked. "What?"

"To pack my stuff in," Steve clarified, "and I can't even lift one side of the furniture. I'll be useless to you."

"I can get boxes," Bucky reassured him, "and I'm sure I can talk some of the guys from the dock into helping me carry the furniture."

"I don't earn much. I don't earn enough to pay the bills or stock the pantry or anything. People don't want to hire me, Buck. And those that do never keep me long."

"All trivial matters," Bucky dismissed easily.

"I like playing records in the middle of the night when I can't sleep. I misplace the mail after opening it and you know how often I lose my house keys. I lose one sock of every pair I ever own, and I usually lose everyone else's second sock in the process."

"Things I knew already. All loveable things in their own ways."

"I'm terrible to live with, Bucky. Truly awful. My ma never said it but I could tell I drove her crazy, too. And I don't mean to offend when I say she had more in the way of patience than you," Steve said severely.

Bucky smiled. "Ouch."

"I'm sorry," Steve dipped his head with a hollow frown.

"Don't make that face," Bucky lectured, "you'll tear your lip again."

Steve was quiet. He was making the same face he always made whenever he second-guessed their friendship. More specifically, why on earth Bucky continued to put up with him after all this time.

Bucky hated that look.

"You think I didn't already consider all these things long before I asked you to live with me?" Bucky asked pointedly.

Steve shrugged weakly and squirmed in his seat. "You always come to ridiculous conclusions. I just want to make sure you considered this three times over before you commit to it."

"If you must know, I considered it four times over and reached the same conclusion each and every time. Maybe it is ridiculous, but it's still the conclusion I am happy with. It's up to you now whether you want to commit to it or not."

Bucky stood up to rinse out the bloodied cloth. He had nearly cleaned Steve up completely, after that it was a matter of bandaging where necessary and leaving the rest to heal in the open air. He knew by now what injuries needed the most attention. Steve's immune system wasn't good for much of anything, meaning that only the smallest of abrasions could be left to his body's vices alone.

"I'd like to," Steve admitted finally, "I can't… this house—,"

"I get it," Bucky said gently, "I feel it too. Though I know it must be so much worse for you."

"I feel so guilty wanting out, but I just can't stand it anymore. It's too big and too empty and I keep sitting around just waiting for her to come home."

Steve's voice faded. Bucky left the cloth in the sink. He sat back down and scooted his chair in closer so one of his knees settled between Steve's thighs. Bucky took his hands—his battered, bloodied hands—but didn't squeeze them this time. Instead, he very barely caressed his busted knuckles with his thumb.

"There's no reason to feel guilty. I knew your mum best second only to you, and I know she wouldn't want you to be miserable here. Besides, I think she expected you to move out with me long before she got sick. She always told me that I'd better take care of you. She told me to make you happy."

Steve considered it a moment and then nodded. It sounded like something his mum would say. "Thank you, Buck." He leaned his elbow on the table and brushed his hair from his eyes. His face, despite all its cuts and bruises, lit up with a smile.

"You don't have to thank me. My house was making me crazy. I was close to jumping ship with or without you… but I'm really glad it's _with_ you." Bucky felt warm. Warmer than he had in weeks.

"You'll regret saying that," Steve warned teasingly.

"Yeah, I'm sure I will," Bucky agreed, "but I'd never take it back."

He wouldn't. Couldn't. He felt far too gloriously warm to ever do such a thing.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter from Bucky's POV. The next chapter switches to Steve's POV. I hope to update regularly, but I only have a very loose plot figured out and I am prone to long periods of writer's block. In any case, I hope you enjoy the chapters to come! Please let me know what you thought in the comments as your feedback means so much to me! :) xoxo


	2. Chapter 2: It Was Home (Steve's POV)

It wasn't much, but it was home. It was the smallest of all the apartments they had inspected in the past week, but it was also the most affordable and the closest to the most potential jobs. They were reduced to one bedroom, a living space with one measly window whose view was barricaded by the neighbours' brick wall, a small kitchen, and an even smaller bathroom, but they still didn't own enough between them to fill the space. Steve had sold most of his old belongings to spare some funds, taking only what was most needed and leaving the rest to find new homes.

He couldn't help but be glad for it; leaving the weight of his old life behind. He wanted to start anew. Even if it meant starting here. The neighbourhood was bad and the place itself fit into it quite nicely. There were scuffs on the doorframe from where the door had been kicked in time and time again, and they had been given a key to what they were told was the fourth set of locks. It wasn't the most reassuring factoid, but Bucky hadn't seemed bothered by it, so Steve told himself not to be bothered by it either. There was no reason for their apartment to be targeted. They had nothing worth stealing and one glance at either of them would be enough evidence to suggest it.

Neither of them dressed all that well. All of Steve's clothes could be described as oversized, and his mother wasn't alive to help take them in anymore. It was a useful skill he hadn't any hope of mastering, despite his few efforts. The tatters of his poor attempts were stored sadly away, their hems uneven and buttons hanging loosely by a thread, likely never to be worn. Paying a tailor to repair the damage was totally out of the question and he didn't dare dish out the cost of new clothes that fit him—not that they were easy to find to begin with unless he wanted to face the humiliation of shopping in the boy's department

Bucky, meanwhile, fit his clothes just fine. If anything, he fit them a little too well. His father was constantly in and out of work with a bad back, meaning that income came and went suddenly without much warning. And with three siblings to share with, Bucky was insistent that not so much as a penny go toward his wardrobe. As far as Steve knew, Bucky hadn't obtained any new clothes for at least the past three years; and it showed. Puberty had really worked wonders on Bucky, and he seemed to only be getting taller and more muscular with each passing day. Already his clothes strained a bit on his body, pulling too tight in all the wrong—or all the right—places.

Steve wasn't the only one to notice.

Bucky was called many names behind cupped hands, all of them too severe for anyone to actually dare say too loudly. It wasn't something one joked about. But, still, Steve knew what they said. But it wasn't just because of the clothes. There were other things that fed their mean mutterings, things that Steve didn't actually know a whole lot about. They were all rumours. Rumours that Bucky went to places only ' _deviant'_ men went, on nights he happened to finish work at the docks early. Steve could only assume these were nothing more than rumours because he himself had never been to one of these places. And if Bucky really was going there, then he surely would have invited Steve too—after all, he invited Steve everywhere.

Steve wasn't sure, and he wasn't in any position to ask. He figured Bucky would confirm or deny it whenever the time suited him. It wasn't Steve's place to pry, though he desperately wanted to. No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, it still felt wrong not to be in the know about this particular aspect of Bucky's life. Not that he'd know how to feel if the rumours had any truth to them. The way he _wanted_ to feel and the way he was _supposed_ to feel were two very different things. And it wasn't a matter of opinion, it was a matter of safety. For both of them. Particularly for Bucky if he was, in fact, too conspicuous in his leanings.

It worried Steve. This was a bad neighbourhood, and there was no telling what the people here would do to someone like Bucky—assuming Bucky was actually like anything. He heard enough about what happened to men who were far too honest about their illicit affections, and that was in safer neighbourhoods. He knew Bucky could handle himself—and Steve too when it came to that—but even he had limitations, and there would be very few willing to defend him. For Bucky's sake, Steve hoped he was careful. He may not know whether he had reason to worry, but just to have all bases covered, he worried nonetheless.

For the longest time, Steve had tried not to fret over it. He couldn't even have sure suspicions, after all. Plenty of girls took a liking to Bucky, too—there was admittedly plenty to like—and Bucky had taken them up on their interest more than enough times to make Steve jealous. But, Bucky had never had a steady girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had much more than a single date with any given girl, and he always dragged Steve along for company. _Double dating_ , he said. Not that Steve's blind dates ever paid him any attention. They always sat with their eyes trained longingly on Bucky, secretly hoping to distract his attention from his own date. They'd lean in and giggle, lips glorious and cheeks glowing, their lashes somehow mesmerising. And yet Bucky never appeared stunned by the attention. He was at ease, keeping his arm around his gal for the evening and treating her like a queen. Steve was only ever there to watch, miserable, just dying for his chance to go home.

Sometimes he couldn't discern where his jealousy was coming from—being ignored by his date… or by Bucky.

They'd had plenty of evenings like this. Plenty to dismiss the rumours.

And yet… Steve doubted. And he hoped.

He supposed if there _was_ any truth to the rumours at all, he was bound to find out sooner rather than later. You learned things about people once you lived with them. Things you never would have imagined. Steve would get accustomed to Bucky's busy routine and he would eventually notice any odd discrepancies that couldn't be accounted for. He'd notice whenever he arrived home at odd hours, with or without the company of another person—man or woman. People made mistakes in their own home. Boundaries inevitably fell. Steve would know for sure, given time, and only then would he know if all his previous jealousies had been entirely misdirected.

Dazed by the heat, Steve stood aside in quiet contemplation, only half paying attention to the men at work until their voices suddenly turned sharp.

"You aren't carrying your weight," Bucky barked at his colleague, struggling to lift his end of the couch whilst the other end remained perched on the lawn.

"Give me a fucking second to find a grip, alright?"

It was either Jackson or Paul who replied. Steve couldn't actually remember who was who. All of Bucky's colleagues looked pretty alike—oversized with shaved heads and bad teeth. It wasn't fair of Steve to judge them on their intimidating appearances, or to continuously forget their names since they'd agreed to help them move without any pay. But they weren't unlike the men who usually beat him in alleyways. Steve was just instinctively on edge and took their civility with a grain of salt.

"Just fucking lift it, grip or no grip," Bucky ordered, heaving the couch up again.

Jackson or Paul swore under their breath and spat at their feet, but did as they were told and lifted their end of the couch. The two of them navigated it up the steep staircase and into the tiny apartment building. Steve watched, somewhat amused, but mostly guilt-ridden for not being able to help more. He was waiting until all the furniture had been moved in to start carrying in the boxes. Until then, it was his job to stay out front, making sure nobody tried to steal from them. He wasn't sure what good he would be if anyone were to try. Steve clearly wasn't opposed to fights, and he'd raise his fists the second anyone dared touch any of their belongings, but they'd likely get away with everything they had and he'd be left face down in the browning grass with saliva and blood dripping from his chin. That's how his fights usually went. Though grass, dead or no, seemed a far nicer surface than the usual brick or stone. Given the choice, this wasn't a bad way to go.

Bucky re-emerged first from the apartment, dabbing a sheen of sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt. It was an unfortunate time of year to be moving heavy furniture. The sun was aggressively beating down on them, effectively burning the little skin that Steve was showing. Bucky, meanwhile, was just quickly tanning. Steve's envy was only diminished by a somewhat shameful pang of lust. Bucky was always nice to look at, but today seemed a better day than any. Maybe it was just the promise of living with him that really opened Steve's eyes. He was lucky. Lucky that someone like Bucky Barnes would have any interest in living with him. Especially after Steve had warned him time and time again of what exactly he was signing up for. Every day Steve had another flaw to add to the growing list; all the reasons why he would make a terrible roommate ranging from the minor to the extreme. He had expressed his concerns frequently and with an undeniable sincerity and yet, insanely, Bucky never hesitated to dismiss them. He never once reconsidered.

Steve would never understand.

Bucky playfully bumped into Steve's side as he passed, grinning mischievously as he did. He seemed happier than ever. In fact, ever since Steve agreed to move, Bucky had been especially excited and eager for the future. He was looking ahead now, whereas in the past he had shunned the entire prospect. Whenever questions and thoughts came up about the future, Bucky had a tendency to clam up. He would claim to have no place in it. When pressed for specifics, he'd said that he was stunted and stuck in the present with nothing to offer. Despite doing well in school and working three jobs, Bucky couldn't shake the fear that he would never know what he was supposed to do, or that he, like his parents before him and their parents before that, would one day find themselves miserable in the kind of life they never wanted. Of course, he had no reason to worry. Steve knew what Bucky was worth, and he knew he would go onto great things.

Steve just never thought that there'd be room for him once he did.

So it was hard to believe his ears whenever Bucky described his plans and Steve was always a part of them. It was _their_ plans—Steve and Bucky, Bucky and Steve. They were always a unit in every picture Bucky painted in fast words, his hands animated with untethered anticipation. It hardly mattered how ridiculous or unattainable his ideas were. Steve wasn't about to deny him when his usual worn pessimism had blossomed into a sense of infinite possibilities.

Steve, too, was looking forward to this new beginning. Of course, he was plenty worried about money, but when was he not? And they were bound to suffer some setback or another—likely one right after the other—but this wasn't a new concept for Steve who had lived much of his life expecting such things. And, despite Bucky's reassurance, he knew he'd be a poor excuse of a roommate and it was only a matter of time until Bucky knew it too. When the realisation hit, his pure optimism was sure to rot.

"You're making that face again," Bucky said in Steve's ear, startling him.

Steve turned and light-heartedly slapped Bucky's shoulder. "I hate when you sneak up on me like that," he accused.

"You're supposed to be paying attention, watching for thieves," Bucky reminded him. "You aren't much of a guard dog if I can take you by surprise."

"You're the only one that can, which is a fact you're far too happy to take advantage of."

Bucky considered it a moment and then grinned boyishly. "It keeps me entertained."

"At my expense."

Steve crossed his arms and scuffed the dirt beneath his shoe, but he couldn't help but smile and try to ignore the faint flush of pink in his cheeks. He was a fool to look forward to more moments like these—knowing they would be plentiful. He had suffered enough at the hands of Bucky's boredom and childlike whimsy, and yet Steve was more than willing to endure more. In fact, he welcomed it—invited it, even.

"If it's not at your expense, then it's simply no good," Bucky said.

"Oh. Wonderful. I guess I have much to look forward to," Steve rolled his eyes.

"It's worth it if it keeps that look off your face." Bucky reached up and brushed Steve's jaw with his knuckles teasingly.

Steve knocked Bucky's hand away and sheepishly rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. His skin still tingled from Bucky's touch. "What look?" He asked, and immediately knew it was probably a mistake to concede that his face even had a look.

"You know, the worried look. The _it's bound to go wrong_ look. _The world is going to implode_ look. The _I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm going to regret it look_ —,"

"I get it. Just my usual face then," Steve muttered and picked up one of the boxes with some strain on his arms. He began carrying it up the stairs with some difficulty. He took each step cautiously, but his knees began shaking at the effort.

Bucky sighed and stepped ahead of him to block his path. Ignoring Steve's protests, he wrestled the box from him and hoisted it under one arm like it weighed almost nothing. Steve, again, thought how he made for a poor excuse of a roommate who couldn't so much as participate in the actual act of moving.

What on earth was Bucky optimistic about?

"That's not what I meant, Steve. You have plenty other faces. All nice faces. Easy on the eyes, even," Bucky said gently, "but you've been sporting this particular face on and off for days now, and I'm starting to think it's because of me."

"Because of you?"

"You're worried about the logistics of this whole thing, and that's a lot of weight to carry around on your own. I haven't exactly been helping by shrugging you off every time you express your concerns." When Steve said nothing and looked down at his feet, Bucky set down the box and placed his hand on Steve's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I promise I'm in this. I'm worried too… I'm actually shit scared. But I'm here, with you, and somehow that makes it okay, you know? We're going to be fine."

"That's still an awful lot of confidence," Steve said, not entirely convinced, "and I don't mean to put a damper on that… I really don't—,"

"I know that," Bucky smiled, squeezing his shoulder one more time before retrieving the box. "But aren't you even a little bit excited? Happy, maybe?"

Steve tried biting back a smile but failed; his stupid lips couldn't help but turn up at the edges. "Your stupid excitement is horribly contagious. Here I am just trying to act like an adult by worrying myself stupid, then you come along all disgustingly happy, making an absolute mockery of me. Infecting me with your positivity."

"Well, _achoo_ ," Bucky mimicked a sneeze. "I'm excited and now you're excited with me."

It was decided as if it were that easy, and Bucky passed the box back to him, knowing perfectly well that the weight of the books inside could just about pull his arms from their sockets. He laughed as Steve walked wide-eyed up the rest of the stairs, concentrating with all his might to reach the top.

"Yeah, totally exciting," Steve remarked sarcastically as either Jackson or Paul saved him before he could collapse. With the weight lifted, he held his chest and wheezed. "I'll be more excited once the first lung forces its way out."

"Always so dramatic," Bucky scoffed. Steve could practically hear him rolling his eyes—there was a distinct sound to it. "You kept insisting that you help, so, I'm letting you help."

"Letting me? Like I need your permission?" Steve challenged, looking back at him. He felt a little taller standing on the high ground. He knew stairs couldn't suffice for actual growth, but, somehow, they made all the difference.

"Well, of course," Bucky cocked an eyebrow, challenging him right back. He took a step down, one foot sidling effortlessly backward behind the other, trusting them to feel their way. Steve towered over him just that little bit more, but he quickly felt so much smaller.

Bucky didn't need the advantage of height.

Instantly, the illusion shattered. The stairs made no real difference at all.

Steve straightened his back and broadened his shoulders, taking each stair down pointedly. He masked the tremble in his still overwhelmed knees all the while. Brushing past Bucky, purposely pushing harder than necessary, Steve picked up another box. He could have gone for one lighter than most, having labelled their contents on the outside with a fountain pen. But he didn't. Instead, he went for another full box of books, lifting the best he could with his legs rather than his back. Halfway up the stairs, he could feel the heat flushing his face and turning it red, but he was determined to at least make it to the top of the first staircase before giving in.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, each capable muscle flexing inside his tight sleeves. He was in better shape than Steve would ever be—meaning any shape at all. It was almost like he did it on purpose, flaunting everything that Steve either envied, admired, or both. Steve's stick arms were absolutely aching by the time he set the box down at Bucky's feet and he easily crushed his almost skeletal fingers beneath it. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sucked on the sore tips and frowned, but still nodded his head at the achievement. For all the good Bucky's arms were worth, he wasn't carrying jack shit.

"Give it a century and we might finally get everything inside to unpack," Bucky laughed and nudged the box inside with his foot for either Jackson or Paul to collect.

"You're an ass," Steve grinned and then stuck out his tongue, not unlike an insolent child.

"You love me for it, Rogers," Bucky gestured for him to bring up the next box. "Keep bringing them up here and we'll take them the rest of the way."

"Letting me help, huh?"

"Would you rather one flight of stairs or six?"

The building had the beginnings of an elevator built in, the empty chute smack bang in the middle of the lobby with gates on every floor, but the actual lift itself had seemingly never been put in. It was almost as if the owner had given up or run out of funds halfway through the renovation. So they had no choice but to trudge up and down the six flights of stairs. It was a wonder how Bucky wasn't a little more worse for wear, all things considered. He was sweating from the summer heat, but the physical exertion itself had affected him very little.

Even when he was carrying nothing, the trip made Steve breathless. It would undoubtedly be impossible to carry every box up one at a time.

"Fair point," Steve granted finally. It was unlike him to back down, but he didn't want to still be doing this when the sun set.

He began the task of shifting the boxes to the top of the first staircase, often finding the three men waiting for something to do because they could carry everything three times faster. Steve gritted his teeth and kept going without complaint. He wouldn't dare admit total defeat by asking for help. Eventually, though, Bucky nudged Jackson or Paul's shoulder and told them; "Alright, I've made Steve suffer enough. You can give him a hand now."

Bucky knew how Steve hated to be coddled. He hated a certain kind of patronising behaviour where he was literally treated like a lesser being due to his size. Steve was not useless, and he had no intention to give in to the notion just because it might be easier to do so. He recognised the difference between an act of kindness and an act of belittling, and Bucky only ever showed him the former. Sure, Bucky teased him plenty. He had a way of poking fun at his small stature, but only because it was matched with his boundless, fiery energy. And he was only ever as protective as anyone fighting for a supposed _"idiot"_ could be.

That's just how it had always been.

Back when they were just kids, Bucky had pulled Steve's ass out of a fight, literally gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him to his feet. He had lifted his own fists but never got the chance to throw more than a couple punches before the teacher on duty spotted them. Steve remembered the other boys immediately crippling into a state of fear, but not Bucky. Bucky had lifted his chin and said without any hesitation; "I started it." Not that Steve let him take the blame, immediately refuting the claim until the two of them were talking over one another, raising their voices until the words were an illegible babble. In the end, they were both punished and walked home together afterward sporting their bruised knuckles, each one blackened by the battle and the subsequent thwack of the ruler.

"What were you thinking, fighting three of them at once?" Bucky had asked, somewhat reproachfully.

Steve remembered hesitating to respond. It was hard to say if he had just been shy, ashamed, or both, but he hadn't wanted to tell Bucky the truth. He wasn't trusting of most other children, despite his best efforts to befriend them, and chose not to talk about his difficulties at home. It wasn't uncommon to be poor, but Steve was both poor _and_ ill, _and_ remarkably easy to bully. It was an unfair combination that he could resent as much as he liked, but had little-to-no power to change. Since it was unlike Steve to lie—not that he was much good at it when he tried—he mostly kept quiet and only spoke when pushed to do so. But Bucky was different. Steve hadn't been able to hold his tongue this time.

It had been impossible to keep secrets from Bucky back then, just as it was still impossible now. Almost all his secrets, no matter how severe or embarrassing, had a way of being pulled out of him, sooner or later.

"They were trying to steal my money," Steve had eventually admitted and rubbed his steadily swelling fingers with his other hand. "My ma and I don't have much. She would have been mad."

Steve expected many things: a snort or a scoff or perhaps even a mocking laugh. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time his drab clothes and sickly frame earned such responses from the other kids. But, Bucky hadn't done any of those things. Instead, he had grabbed Steve's arm, smiled sheepishly, and said with absolute conviction;

"Then at least learn how to fight properly."

They'd taken the long route home, tracing the streets together and sweating in their school uniforms under the lazy heat of a dying summer's day. Sometimes they ran, but never too far and never too long, both biding their time and urging the sun to set slower. Together they had raised their fists and thrown punches into the air, ignoring the honking of car horns protesting the whims of reckless youth. Steve was euphoric to have someone who was happy to run at his speed.

By the time Steve jogged up the stairs to his apartment, he was able to make a proper fist—despite the state of his knuckles—and throw a decent right hook that would later strike the same bullies dumb for the briefest of moments. Looking back, Bucky was watching him, all smiles and wayward hair, waving to him as he opened his door. It was the kind of wave that said _'see you soon'_ rather than _'goodbye'_.

Not much had changed since then. Steve still got into fights and Bucky still fought alongside him. And he always patched up Steve's wounds afterward. Over the years, he'd gotten just as practiced in this as he was at fighting. Sometimes Steve wondered what Bucky thought of him. The flicker of frustration in his eyes after a brawl never went by unnoticed, but neither did the overwhelming suggestion of concern. Bucky never scolded Steve out loud unless the bruises were especially bad, at which point he wouldn't hesitate to call him a complete idiot. And it was obvious that he meant it. But his hands were also so sincere in the way they touched Steve's tender skin, taking so much care to address his injuries; fingertips caressing his cheek, palm holding his jaw, thumb brushing across his split lip. His words spoke anger, but his touch was nothing but kind and attentive. Bucky still cared despite it all. He seemed to understand Steve's intentions, or at the very least he tried to. He knew now just as he did back then that Steve only ever meant well, and it did no good to ask him to back down… instead, you just had to teach him how to fight better.

Bucky let Steve do his part, knowing he was better off for it and ignored anyone and everyone that dared tell them otherwise.

Bucky was still happy running at Steve's speed.

"This is the last one," Steve wheezed as he set down the final box at the top of the stairs.

"Good," Bucky sighed with relief. He was finally starting to get out of breath. "You might as well run up and get ready."

"Get ready? For what?"

"We're taking the boys out for a drink," Bucky explained and gestured upstairs to where Jackson and Paul were both likely waiting. "They agreed to help us free of charge, but I feel it's only fair that we treat them somehow. Just to say thanks."

"Well, that's nice of you," Steve smiled.

"It's nice of _us_ ," Bucky corrected, "you're coming with us, too, Rogers. No backing out."

"But—."

"But nothing. We're going to celebrate this occasion and thank them for giving us the time of day. It would be rude of you not to come."

Bucky picked up the last box and started carrying it up the stairs, purposely slowing down until Steve followed after him. After taking the same set of stairs so many times, Steve could barely feel his legs anymore, but he knew just how uncomfortably aware he would be of every aching muscle tomorrow morning. He was dying to sit down and let them relax for a few hours, hopefully lessening the pain we was sure to endure later. But he knew Bucky was right. And, deep down, he was just as eager to mark the occasion and treat it for what it was: an exciting, new period in his life that he had the pleasure to share with his best friend. Steve couldn't just stay home and let the moment pass them by.

"Okay, okay," He agreed.

"It'll be good," Bucky promised. He turned his back to their apartment door and pushed it open, angling himself inside and propping it ajar with his shoulder just wide enough so Steve could slip past him. Steve was immediately greeted with a big puff of cigarette smoke in his face and he spluttered into his sleeve. "Nuh, uh. Put that shit out," Bucky ordered sternly, to either Jackson or Paul.

Lifting his mouth from his sleeve and opening his somewhat watering eyes, Steve realised they both had a cigarette nestled between their lips. They blinked in surprise but took no action to quit, even as Bucky swiftly set the box down and forced the rigid living room window to open.

"What are you on about, Barnes?" Jackson asked.

Now that they were standing side by side, Steve could finally see some discerning differences between them.

"Put out the cigarettes," Bucky said, "I don't want any of that in here."

"You used to smoke with us all the time," Paul argued, but they both did as they were told and put their cigarettes out in the kitchen basin.

"Yeah, and then I stopped. You smoke, he coughs, and he usually doesn't stop for days." Bucky hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Steve.

"You used to smoke?" Steve was surprised. He never knew that. He'd smelt the smoke on his clothes but always assumed that he simply carried it home with him from work. Almost everyone Bucky worked with smoked, but Steve had never seen him with a cigarette of his own.

"For a bit," Bucky shrugged dismissively, "but you said you hated the smell so…"

Steve fiddled with the hem of his shirt which had long since been untucked to combat the heat. He didn't know what he was to say to that, especially with Jackson and Paul casting curious glances back and forth between them. He finally settled on, "oh," and gestured towards the bathroom, "I'm going to go clean up…"

Bucky cleared his throat and averted his wary gaze. "Yeah, okay. Don't take too long, I need to wash up, too."

"Paul and I are going to take off. We'll meet you there," Jackson said, clearing the air of so much more than just cigarette smoke. Steve wasn't sure if he was thankful or resentful for it.

"See you there," Bucky affirmed.

Steve closed the door and caught the slightest hint of a smile in the mirror. He had to wonder what other secrets he would learn now that he and Bucky were living together in such close quarters. But then, as his smile faltered, he also had to ponder which secrets of his own would be uncovered—of which he only repressed the most dangerous. After all, you learned about people once you lived with them. Things you never would have imagined. And Bucky always pulled secrets out of Steve, sooner or later.

* * *

Steve had wrongly believed that _'taking the boys out for a drink'_ had meant one singular beer over a cheap dinner. It was probably naïve of him to think such a thing. Looking back now, he knew the idea was a ridiculous one, and he now questioned his own common sense. Retrospection had a way of making anyone second guess their choices, and Steve was certainly second-guessing his now.

He tried numerous times to count the number of empty glasses at their table, but the finished drinks were taken away as new ones were put down far too quickly to allow him a definite figure. Though it really shouldn't have been a surprise. Both Jackson and Paul were rather large men, and alcohol took to them like water to a stream—it just flowed and flowed and flowed without there being any real change to the scenery. They could truly hold their liquor. Steve just kept waiting and waiting, anticipating the moment when signs of intoxication started to show.

Bucky, though fit, was still rather lean when compared to his work friends and the difference in weight really became apparent as he downed seemingly the same number of drinks in quick succession and succumbed to them. His posture slumped forward from his stool, both elbows eventually making their way onto the table to support himself. His usual charming grin was coloured by every shade of light-headedness and ease. He laughed so freely, leaning into Steve and gracing the back of his neck with his hand each time he found one of his bad jokes particularly funny.

The two of them drank so rarely that Steve somehow forgot how uninhibited Bucky could become. He was usually so open and carefree as it was—maybe even careless. It didn't often occur to Steve just how much he was keeping restrained. It seemed impossible to think there was any more room to loosen up.

But, Bucky had proven him wrong yet again. He was remarkably elated as he ordered yet another round of cheap drinks for the table, including one for Steve who still had half a glass full in front of him.

Steve was already beginning to feel the effects as the liquor took course through his bloodstream. Depending on whether it was the good booze or the cheap shit they usually drank, Steve could easily get drunk on one glass; especially if he tried to keep pace with everyone else. Assuming he had to be sober enough to get everyone home later, he steadied himself and took comfort in the fuzzy, warm feeling of very slight tipsiness.

"You're gonna drink yourself stupid," he warned Bucky, but he was smiling. He was just drunk enough to relax, and wouldn't dare put a damper on Bucky's good mood. Especially since it was gloriously amusing to watch unfold.

"How can I when all the stupid is with you?" Bucky challenged and raised a brow at him, pursing his lips into a satisfied smile.

"There's enough stupid to go around, believe me," Steve said.

The bar was filled with patrons, all either drinking steadily or rapidly; there was no in between. He knew, given time, trouble was bound to arise, and he half-heartedly intended to get them out of there before it did. It was a plan for a later time; one he couldn't quite bring himself to focus on. His usual senses were blurred.

"We're just having fun. A lot of fun. Aren't we Steve?" Bucky leaned into him as an especially rowdy group passed their table. "You're having fun?" Bucky pushed, convinced Steve hadn't heard him the first time.

"Oh, plenty of fun," Steve assured him.

"I'm really glad you came. I know you didn't really want to, but I'm glad you did."

Steve steadied him with a heartfelt laugh. He could feel a new kind of flushed heat reddening his face as both the beer and the close proximity to Bucky took hold and shocked his system. He made the practical decision to push away his unfinished glass, knowing he was suitably drunk enough to enjoy his evening without pushing it too far.

Bucky, meanwhile, could get started and lose all intentions to stop. The meaning of limitations had a way of escaping him.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Steve said.

"I'm really glad," Bucky affirmed again.

"Me too, Buck, me too."

"I wouldn't be too glad just yet," Paul said, "we're running late for our train."

"Train? Train to where?" Steve was suddenly brought to attention by the prospect.

Bucky laughed and clutched onto Steve's arm. "Right! The surprise!"

Bucky's surprises were often too bold in their execution, and that was when he was sober. The risk was even greater with a few drinks in him. Steve had a way of getting himself into trouble, though he never set out looking for it, but Bucky's trouble was always premeditated, just with various unexpected twists and turns sweeping them off course. His plans weren't usually well devised was the point Steve often made but Bucky always refuted. Steve, perhaps naively, always gave into him. Together their recklessness had sometimes gotten the better of them… and, were Steve in his better mind, he probably would have shut down the notion of a train ride in that very instant.

"I'm afraid to ask," Steve chuckled, somewhat darkly. Briefly forgetting his initial instinct to sober up, he picked up his glass and went to take a sip but couldn't stop laughing long enough to bring it to his lips.

"To celebrate moving into our new home, we're going to Rockaway Beach!" Bucky shook his arm, the material of Steve's sleeves caught in tight fists. As Bucky slowly slid off his stool, he started pulling Steve down along with him. Again, Steve steadied him with a hand to his chest—Bucky's heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings.

"That's assuming we don't miss the train," Jackson corrected and put down the money for their last round of drinks.

Deep down, Steve knew it wasn't at all wise to go all the way to Rockaway Beach when Bucky was already in such a state, but he was entirely too exhilarated in the moment. Somehow, despite his better judgement, Steve found himself guiding Bucky up off his stool and leading him out the door of the bar behind Jackson and Paul who were both unfairly stable on their feet. He let them walk ahead to the station, which made it easier for him to follow and keep an eye on Bucky at the same time. Not that Bucky was going anywhere without him. There was little of him disappearing alone into the night, so closely tucked into Steve's side, walking with a definite sway to his step, but otherwise competently without any obvious dip in his consciousness. He remained keen as they neared the station, soon quickening his pace and dragging Steve along with him by the hand.

They had to run the rest of the way as the train threatened to leave without them, and they shouted raucously in the hopes they would be heard. Bucky's calls collapsed into laughter and Steve had to pull at his hand, ensuring he kept up. It was hard not to laugh, too, at the ridiculousness of it all. He knew they looked like idiots, himself especially as they made it onto the train and he was the only one sweating and out of breath. With adrenaline still shaking his legs, Steve sat down and pulled Bucky down next to him.

They sat close together on the surprisingly empty carriage whilst the other two men stood in front of them, chattering amongst themselves. The journey would have been long enough to sober them up some, but Jackson slipped a small flask out of his jacket and passed it around. Steve shook his head when it was offered to him and passed it forward to Bucky who took it for a few quick swigs.

Sitting down, Bucky seemingly lulled into a somewhat more sensible presence that seemed far easier to reel in. But Steve had been wrong before. Many times. He was going to keep a close eye just to be sure. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the flask was a dangerous thing that he likely should have snatched straight out of Bucky's hand. Steve had been right to say that there was plenty of stupid to go round, and he had taken his fair share of it.

They were able to leave the train with far less difficulty than they had getting on, though Bucky remained the clear weak link of the group who had to depend on everyone else for direction. Steve began to wonder if he had counted the drinks less accurately than he had originally thought, attributing too few of the empty glasses to Bucky. He had no way of knowing now, though he guessed there was something to his suspicions as Bucky took off ahead of them into the crowd, his previous clinginess quickly forgotten.

"Oh, for god's sake," Steve sighed and struggled to keep up.

His 5'4" height had various limitations, one being his absolute incapability to follow Bucky in a crowd. He couldn't see over people's heads despite standing on his toes, and so he depended on Paul and Jackson to lead the way. But, turning around, the two of them were already gone, probably taking off to enjoy the festivities. Trying not to panic so soon, Steve decided the only thing he could do was circle the place and hope he found Bucky before he could get into any kind of mischief.

He excused himself as he slipped between people, navigating his way through the throng. Unable to hear anything legible through the mass of noise, he strained to recognise anything familiar. It was a busy night, probably the first this week that hadn't been washed out by late summer storms. Everybody was out enjoying the clear evening, young couples holding hands and groups of friends huddling in front of booths or lining up for the rides. He was surrounded by laughter and the joyous chatter of children, their bodies illuminated by lights.

But Bucky wasn't anywhere among them.

Distantly, he could smell the salty tang of the beach, but it was greatly diminished by the overwhelming scents of onions, cooked sausages, and the sickly sweet churn of the cotton candy machines. Above the din of chatter and delighted screams, the clang of rides rang overhead, each riddled by funfair music from speakers tucked away out of sight.

There were far too many distractions, and Steve could only guess which one would draw Bucky's attention. His boundless energy and affinity for careless fun could lead him just about anywhere and everywhere all at once. Steve knew most of his vices well enough… he just couldn't keep up with them was all. Though not for lack of trying.

As it turns out, there was one distraction Steve had forgotten to consider. When he finally found Bucky, he was leaning against the side of a carnival game, arms easily crossed and head cocked slightly to one side, smiling at a redheaded dame. Steve could only see her from behind, but he could tell she was absolutely smitten with him. It wasn't hard to guess. All the girls favoured Bucky and were usually happy to flirt with him whenever the opportunity presented itself… and Steve couldn't honestly blame them if he tried.

He slowed as he neared them, almost hesitating with an awkward sense of jealousy. He felt like he was intruding; walking in on something intimate that he wasn't supposed to see. Of course, he reasoned that they were in a very public place and there were more than enough eyes around to spot any funny business, but it was still a feeling he couldn't shake.

And he was trying remarkably hard to shake it.

"Steve!" Bucky's eyes sidled away from the girl and caught Steve over her shoulder.

"You took off without me," Steve said, somewhat accusingly, as he joined them.

The girl perceptibly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the smile to her scarlet lips falling some-ways without quite disappearing. Steve watched her, hoping to somehow insert himself into whatever conversation they had been having, but it was clear she wanted to keep him out of it. She was remarkably beautiful, Steve thought, with dazzling green eyes and a smile that could light up somebody's world. Steve easily felt small in her presence.

"I thought you were behind me," Bucky said, "I turned around and you were gone! Disappeared right into thin air. Figured it would be better to wait till you found me."

"Well, I found you… with company," Steve nodded his head in her direction.

Bucky frowned, mildly confused, but then blinked with sudden understanding. "Right! Sorry! This is… D…"

"Dolores," she finished for Bucky, somehow unswayed by Bucky's falter.

"It's nice to meet you." Steve offered his hand.

Politely, she took it, and he brought her hand to his lips without actually kissing it. Neither of them were eager to follow common courtesy. She withdrew her hand quite quickly and reached out to touch Bucky's shoulder, smiling at him all the while.

"Bucky here was just telling me how good he was at this game," Dolores said, already impressed by Bucky's drunken confidence—the overzealous boasting he had a way of making sound so smooth.

Steve couldn't help but snort with mild derision. He knew Bucky was in no condition to knock down any bottles unless he physically threw himself into them. He wouldn't be able to aim worth a damn with that much liquor hindering his senses. His hand-eye coordination was completely shot. Steve could tell Bucky was leaning rather than standing upright out of need rather than by choice, but somehow this had completely escaped Dolores' notice.

She turned away, insulted, and pulled at Bucky's bicep. "Will you win me a prize?" she asked hopefully, gazing at him through her long lashes.

Were Steve at the receiving end of that look, he probably would have buckled at the knees. But Bucky was well seasoned in this area. He barely even reacted to her at all. Steve could only wonder what it was like to be bored by a girl's attention.

Bucky eyed Steve and grinned, laughing seemingly to himself. "Why certainly," he agreed, clumsily pushing himself up. He found his balance and tried digging money from his pocket with some difficulty.

It was Steve's turn to laugh and he masked it with a cough against his fist.

Bucky brushed past him and chortled into his ear, "You little punk."

"You're making the lady wait, Barnes," Steve teased and folded his arms expectantly. It felt good to tease him for a change. Maybe it was petty, but Steve needed to poke fun right now. Standing by and saying nothing at all didn't sit well with the twisted knot in his gut.

"Just working myself up to it, Rogers," Bucky said as he paid for a turn. He turned his attention to Dolores with the most captivating smile, the kind that frequently whipped the air right of people's lungs and charmed them senseless. It seemed to work as Dolores giggled and blushed, hiding the dimples of her cheeks with her hand.

Steve felt the sharp pang of jealousy and he fell quiet, no longer quipping Bucky. Anything witty he could have said was suddenly robbed from him by his own insecurities. He shrunk in on himself, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and sheepishly scuffing the ground with his foot. He'd be lucky to disappear. But if he took off now, there was no guarantee he would be able to find Bucky again later, and he couldn't risk that when he was in this condition. Steve had no choice but to loiter and watch this flirtation unfold before him.

Bucky lined up his aim and pitched the ball towards the bottles stacked at the back of the booth… and he missed… by a long shot. He threw his hands up in mock failure and roared with dissatisfaction, as though he had been _this_ close. He picked up the next ball and aimed again, and missed again, granted with a little less room to spare.

"Third time's the charm," he promised and winked at the two of them.

Dolores laughed with glee. Glancing at the adoring look on her face, Steve realised she thought Bucky was just playing around and making a fool of himself for her entertainment. But Steve knew better. On a better day, Bucky would be pegging every ball right at the centre and knocking every bottle down in one go just to show off that he could. This was no act; Bucky was simply too drunk.

He threw the last ball without even taking the time to aim and it hit the back of the booth with a muffled _'whumf'_ against the red curtain. The stack of bottles stood tall, completely untouched, silently mocking him with their undying stability.

"Another round," Bucky ordered happily and set down more money.

Steve, again, looked over at Dolores who clearly took this as a sign that Bucky had money he was willing to spend on her. She had no idea that he and Steve were living together in the dodgy part of Brooklyn, sharing the one bedroom in a rundown apartment. If she did, she likely wouldn't still be standing here with lust gleaming in her eyes. Steve was oh so tempted to tell her—to just somehow bring it up in casual conversation—exaggerating every detail to really dissolve her affections. Steve wanted to send her running in the other direction.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

If Bucky fancied her, then that was entirely his business. It wouldn't be fair of Steve to intrude and mess up his chances, especially since Bucky only ever tried finding the perfect girl for him whenever they went on double dates. Bucky never sabotaged Steve's already incredibly slim chances.

Steve forced a smile and offered the only kind of support he could; the only kind he knew might actually work. He taunted. "Is that how you always try to impress the ladies? You earn their pity?"

"I'm warming up," Bucky slurred defensively. He swayed a little bit.

"You've been warming up for a while. Should be roaring hot by now," Steve said, "actually, you should be melting. So what gives?"

"I'd love to see _you_ try, Rogers," Bucky laughed. "Watch it drop and hit the ground without covering any distance."

Steve leaned in closer as a nearby group of people broke into cheer. "I'm not the one who talked themselves up."

Bucky crudely stuck out his tongue and turned his attention back to the game. He pegged the ball, once, twice, three times in quick succession and only managed to knock down the top milk bottle. It was an improvement from the last attempt, but not nearly enough to earn Dolores a prize. Bucky held up a hand, holding his place in line as he sought more money from any of his pockets. Steve couldn't help but splutter into his sleeve when he caught the disillusioned expression on Dolores' face. She had finally caught on that something was amiss.

"I think your admirer is losing interest, Buck," Steve murmured to him.

Bucky glanced beyond Steve to see his redheaded girl casting her focus to the happenings around her, her feet near dancing to walk away and find someone better worth her time. Bucky's face flushed red with absolute embarrassment and he ran a disgruntled hand through his hair, somehow hoping that alone would help sober him up enough to save his reputation. If he didn't perform a miracle this time around, Dolores was surely lost to him forever.

"You need to steady your arm," Steve said quietly. He couldn't help but take pity on his friend, despite all his other instincts that were dying for this to happen. "Aim for the base of the bottles. Knock the bottom ones out and they'll all tumble, got it?"

"I can barely see straight, Steve," Bucky said in a hushed tone, "and my muscles feel like jelly."

"You're gonna have to try, or else she's going to take off without you."

Bucky sighed and ran his hand through his hair one more time, blinking hard against the harsh lights flashing into his eyes. He lifted his arm to aim and then frowned, immediately recognising how little hope he had of doing this. Bucky nudged Steve's arm and whispered into his ear; "Distract her."

Steve opened his mouth to argue but caught the desperation in Bucky's expression and quickly closed it again without uttering a word. Heaving a sigh, Steve turned to Dolores and tried to gain her attention, but it was clear she wasn't willing to give him the time of day. She looked over Steve's shoulder, still hoping Bucky would pull through. Knowing he would have to take drastic measures, Steve pretended to stumble and stepped on the toe of her suede leather Oxfords.

"Ouch!" she cried and bent down to cup her injured toes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Steve apologised. He felt like an absolute fool—but what else was new. He knelt down in an attempt to offer assistance of some kind but she waved him off with a swift look of disgust.

"These are new," she sniffed, glaring back and forth between Steve and the dirty stain on her shoe.

Before Steve could apologise again, they were interrupted by the sudden clang of glass tumbling over. They both turned to see Bucky with his fists up to the air in triumph, grinning from ear to ear. The stack of bottles littered the floor of the booth and the attendant smiled to himself, slipping what was evidently more than three rounds worth of money into his belt. Bucky had paid him off.

"So what will it be, D… Dot," Bucky asked and gestured to the row of prizes hanging overhead.

Dolores' face lit up and she stepped forward to choose her prize, immediately forgetting all about her stained shoe and sore toes. Bucky put her arm around her and she leaned into him, completely smitten with him all over again as if nothing untoward had happened. In the end, he had won her a stuffed bear and earned her affections, never mind the number of embarrassing attempts. He smiled and played lightly with a lock of her red hair, twirling it around his forefinger as she giggled and placed a hand against his chest. The attendant retrieved the bear for them and Bucky presented it to her, watching Steve all the while.

Steve forced another smile and nodded his approval.

"He's all yours, Dot," Bucky purred.

"Naww, he's so cute, I love him!" Dolores hugged the bear close. "Thank you, Bucky."

Steve _hated_ that Bucky called her Dot. He hated seeing them so warm to one another, their bodies close, her hand easily slipping into his, their fingers entwining. They made a cute couple, gazing adoringly into one another's eyes like two people who had known and loved each other for years. But the way she curved into him and reached for his chest spoke of an undying passion, the exhilarating rush that came from a new relationship—not that Steve knew what that felt like.

"We should find Jackson and Paul," Steve said finally. He was desperate to leave, to get out of there and go home to the quiet and cold confines of his bed.

"I thought they were with you," Bucky said, confused.

"Do you see them?" Steve rolled his eyes.

The night had not gone as he had hoped. Their friends were missing and Bucky was tangled with a beautiful redhead that clearly wanted nothing more than for Steve to disappear. And what's worse is that Steve could hardly blame her. Sometimes he wanted to disappear too.

"Hey," Bucky said gently and untangled himself from Dolores, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong with me. We just need to find your friends before they get themselves into trouble."

Bucky nodded in understanding and was quick to abandon Dolores' side in favour of Steve's. "I'm really sorry, but we've got to go," he said to her, "you take good care of that bear."

"I will," she promised.

Her smile fell and her expression turned dark. She was absolutely crushed to see Bucky go so soon and without any sign of hesitation or remorse. He didn't even stop to ask for her number. Steve was in no position to remind him, either, as he turned away and started searching the crowd for Jackson and Paul. Bucky followed him, keeping close to his shoulder so they didn't become separated amidst the swarm of people.

There were fewer people to contend with as it was getting late and families were heading home to put their children to bed. It was mostly young adults that loitered around the rides, groups standing or walking together, enjoying the last of the fun before the night was through. It was sure to make finding the two tall, burly men easier. Steve gestured for Bucky to follow him around the corner towards the main food court, assuming that they may have stopped there to eat.

Time had done little for Bucky who was still unsteady on his feet and a little taken aback by his ever-changing surroundings. Had he not become distracted by Dolores when he did, there was no knowing where Bucky would have ended up. In a way, Steve had a lot to thank her for, though he was far too petty and jealous to admit it aloud. He didn't even really want to talk about her, but he wasn't going to dismiss the subject if Bucky brought it up.

But he never did.

Bucky said nothing about her as they searched, only stopping when he reached out and took Steve's arm. His face had run pale and he stumbled toward a garbage can against the wall. "I feel like I'm going to be sick," he warned.

"You drank too much," Steve stated plainly.

"It didn't feel like too much at the time," Bucky coughed.

He planted one hand against the wall and leaned over the trash can, preparing to heave if need be. The liquor had finally hit home, settling in his bloodstream and flooding his senses. He could become floored at any given moment, which would make the journey home all the more perilous. Steve could not carry him on his own. He had to find Jackson and Paul to help them, assuming they weren't any worse for wear themselves. It was entirely possible that they were already passed out drunk somewhere—only God knew where.

"That's usually how it goes," Steve sighed.

Bucky finally heaved and collapsed on his knees in front of the can. Steve looked around, making sure nobody had spotted them there in the shadows. Nobody was watching as Steve knelt down beside him and rubbed his back soothingly. He didn't know what else to do. He couldn't take away some of Bucky's suffering—he couldn't lighten the load, though he would if he could. He'd do it in a heartbeat.

"At least _Dot_ can't see you now," Steve said, almost spitting the word Dot.

"Huh?" Bucky coughed.

"Nothing," Steve dismissed. He knew it wasn't Bucky's fault. It wasn't fair to rub it in his face.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said and clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His eyes glistened with sincere apology and the all-consuming depth of intoxication. Steve knew Bucky would regret this in the morning—at least whatever parts of it that he remembered.

Steve smiled gently, quickly sympathetic, and brushed Bucky's tussled hair back out of his face. "It's okay," he assured him, "we'll sober you up and go home, alright?"

Bucky nodded and whimpered quietly to himself, ducking his head down against the arm he rested on the edge of the trash can. Steve nudged him and carefully pulled him away from the bin, allowing him to lean into Steve's side instead. There was no knowing what kinds of nasty rubbish had been in that trash can, and he didn't want Bucky falling into it.

"You should eat something," Steve suggested, "any preferences?"

Bucky thought about it a moment before smiling weakly. "Hotdogs. Lots of hotdogs."

"Hot dogs it is. Think you'll be okay here without me for a couple minutes?"

"Uh huh."

"You sure? I could, um, I dunno, you could lean on me while we stand in line or—,"

"I'm not going to disappear into thin air, Steve," Bucky promised, "I won't go anywhere."

Steve assessed the situation and decided it was probably safe to leave him there. He didn't seem inclined to take off back into the park and would likely sit there with his head hanging between his knees. Sure, it wasn't such a pretty sight, but it was far better than the alternative. Steve just had to hope nobody came by and kicked him out in his absence.

"Try and act sober," Steve instructed sternly before getting up. Bucky gave him a lazy thumbs up and watched as he turned to leave for one of the food stalls.

When he came back, Bucky was sat leaning against the wall with one arm rested atop his knees, the other propped up on his elbow with his hand in his hair. His head dipped forward and his lips sat slightly parted, gently breathing in the humid air. It felt claustrophobic and hot inside the bubble of distant laughter and surging rides.

Steve propped the cardboard tray of hotdogs precariously on one hand and guided Bucky up to his feet with the other. Bucky instinctively laced his arm around him, trying hard not to apply too much of his weight onto him but failing quite miserably. But Steve didn't mind. He staggered a bit under Bucky's drunken weight but helped carry him out of the park towards the beach. Leaving the bright lights behind them, they were able to find it by following the scent of fresh air and ocean salt. Soon, they were able to hear the gentle crashing of waves against the shore and could feel the soft grit of sand caught in the wind against their skin. Once they hit the sand, their feet sunk easily into it and filled their shoes, but neither complained as they tread closer to the water's edge and sat down.

Steve settled Bucky down first before handing him a hotdog. Bucky slurred a quiet thank you and bit into it lazily, humming appreciatively at the taste. His stomach was sure to be thankful for some food in place of more alcohol. It was easy to assume that, had Paul and Jackson stuck around, the drinking would have carried on later into the night until Bucky was nothing more than an unconscious mass on the floor. That was assuming he didn't get arrested first. Steve could only imagine how much worse the night could have gone.

All things considered, he and Bucky were sitting alone together on the beach in the middle of the night eating hotdogs.

Steve was happy.

"This is so damn good," Bucky said with his mouth full.

"You don't have to inhale the whole thing, Buck. I got you another one," Steve said and nudged his shoulder. They were very barely illuminated by the lights at their back, but Steve could just make out the swelling of Bucky's cheeks where he had bitten off more than he could chew, and the dark smear of sauce and grease on his lips. Steve snorted and wrinkled his nose in mock disgust. He swore he couldn't take Bucky anywhere.

"Bii-te eh, Ogers," Bucky's voice was completely muffled.

"What's that now?"

Bucky forced himself to swallow with some effort. "I said _"bite me, Rogers."_ "

"Big talk coming from the guy with ketchup and mustard all over his face," Steve smirked.

Bucky licked at his lips and smiled. He seemed to be happy, too.

They leaned against each other's sides, Steve's shoulder pressed to Bucky's bicep. He was at the perfect height to rest his head down on Bucky's shoulder if he wanted to, but Bucky was shifting far too much, kicking off his shoes and burying his feet into the sand.

"I think they're gone, Steve," Bucky said thoughtfully.

Bucky dusted his hands off after finishing the first hot dog and then made grabby hands for another. Steve obliged him and continued nibbling on his own, taking his time to eat it even as it started to go cold and filled with small grains of sand that felt gritty between his teeth. It wasn't much good now, but he wasn't going to let it go to waste. Bucky, meanwhile, hardly seemed to care or even notice. Steve decided to leave his second one propped on his knee for Bucky to consume sooner rather than later. His needs far surpassed Steve's, and at least he got a kick out of it.

"Who?"

"Jackson and Paul of course."

"Gone where?" Steve asked. He had somehow forgotten all about the search, instead becoming completely preoccupied with sobering up Bucky.

"I don't know. Home, maybe. Or they met up with some girls and took off with them to do all kinds of nasty things," Bucky shrugged, leaning back into the sand.

"Would they do that?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. You know, assuming they aren't all talk."

Steve wrinkled his nose. "Do they really talk like that?"

"Boasting to anyone that'll listen? Yeah, of course, they do. All the guys at the docks do," Bucky told him. "Most of them are probably lying but you don't ask questions. Not ones you actually want answered."

"Do you?" Steve asked, "Talk like that I mean?"

Bucky thought about it a moment before snorting and shaking his head. His hair ruffled gently in the breeze.

"Nah. I don't talk about that stuff. It's private. None of their business."

Steve's lips turned up into the smallest hint of a smile. He'd had his doubts. Bucky talked differently when he was around them. He certainly wasn't a saint by any means, but he usually didn't use as much foul language when it was just him and Steve. He had a way of cursing whenever the situation called for it; whenever his frustrations boiled and his day went wayward, but, with them, the amount of cursing amplified tenfold. It didn't bother Steve that much—he had heard far worse before… but it didn't sound like Bucky.

Steve had heard him at the docks the few times he went to see him, and he sounded like a completely different person. Sometimes he had acted like it, too, his expression suddenly turning serious as he escorted Steve away from his colleagues as they hollered horrendously crude things at his back. He was so severe, grabbing his arm too tightly and walking him away so swiftly, Steve couldn't think to stand his ground or ask questions.

For once, he didn't argue or put up a fight.

His heart had hammered wildly in his chest; impossible to rein in. It was the dread setting in. The dread that there was something to his fears, and that there always had been. But as soon as they had rounded the corner and were free from prying eyes, Bucky had broken out into a grin, seemingly thrilled to see him. The sudden change had been enough to give Steve whiplash, and he had only gone back a couple times since. He avoided it when he could. The docks felt out of bounds to him, somehow. Like Bucky didn't really want him there.

Steve had never asked about it before, but he felt like it might be safe to ask now, knowing Bucky probably wouldn't remember it in the morning.

"I was surprised you asked them to help out," Steve said, choosing his words with caution.

"Why?" Bucky finished off his second hot dog and wordlessly took the third Steve offered him. He laid back against the sand, holding it close his chest. He was probably too drunk to sit up.

"Well, I don't know… you never introduced me to them in the past. Or to _any_ of the guys from the docks, now that I think about it."

Bucky was quiet at first before he finally sighed. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. You always just… turned me away," Steve said, "like you were ashamed of me or something."

Steve recoiled now that he had said it out loud. He couldn't take it back even if he wanted to.

To distract himself from the nervous shake in his fingers, he set about untying his shoelaces, struggling a little with the double knots. But anything was better than watching Bucky lying there so comfortably numb in the sand, his gaze turned to the sky as if a whole other world existed out there; a world without Steve in it—a better world. Sometimes Steve wondered where Bucky would be if he had the means to be elsewhere. He wondered if Bucky's plans included him so intrinsically only because he had been dealt a poor hand. Had he been given better cards, would it have been somebody else lying on the beach with him?

"It's not like that," Bucky said, "I'm not ashamed of you, you idiot. I just care about you, that's all."

"See, that doesn't exactly correlate…"

"Yeah, it does. Some of those guys are alright, and some of them aren't. Paul and Jackson are usually more bark than they are bite, but some of them see a little guy like you and think it's alright to take advantage," Bucky explained. "They'll beat on you just because they can."

"Because I'm small?" Steve scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky hesitated and picked up a fistful of sand, letting it drain through his fingers slowly. He did this again, and again, and again, and Steve watched. He watched the grains fall away like dust, catching in the light breeze and blanketing their clothes.

"They'll think they can get away with it because you're small. But they'll start it because of me," he answered finally.

"Because of you? Why?"

"You know why, Steve," Bucky's voice became muffled as he talked into his arm, laying his head down against it. "You know what people say about me. Most folk just whisper, but the guys at the docks are all trash talk and they aren't afraid to say what they think."

Steve bit his bottom lip and fiddled nervously with the fraying threads at the ends of his shoelaces. He didn't dare ask if there was any truth to their words. It wasn't his place. He was scared Bucky would answer, and he was scared that he wouldn't.

"I'm sorry, Buck."

"It doesn't matter. People can say whatever they want," Bucky assured him, "nothing anyone says or does dictates who I am. I just shut it down, do the work, and go home at the end of the day. They don't follow me anymore. They don't start trouble."

Steve laid back down next to him, reaching out to touch him. "You never told me that they did that?"

Bucky chortled. The hollow sound was absolutely void of humour. "It was early days. They figured three against one would set me straight. Little did they know I've been jumping into all your fights all these years. I really should be thanking you."

Steve smiled sadly. "You're welcome."

"I really had to learn how to fight in order to save your ass," Bucky teased, grinning boyishly into his sleeve.

"Don't tell fibs, Barnes. I taught you a thing or two myself."

"Now who's telling fibs?!"

Steve pursed his lips in light-hearted offence. He knew Bucky sometimes depended too much on his size and good health, taking risks and reckless swings a wiser man would likely warn against. Of course, it wasn't Steve's place to say so, considering his history, but that didn't mean Bucky wasn't also guilty of fighting above his pay grade. His form was good and he was faster than most, but all that was worth nothing if he didn't know how to use it. Had Steve the mass to back up his punches, he figured he could beat Bucky hand to hand, easy. There were things he could teach him if only Bucky had the ear to actually listen without immediately guffawing.

Steve pushed himself up onto his feet, stumbling just a little on the uneven terrain. His head was still somewhat spinning from the long, eventful evening, which made it all the more difficult to find his balance. Raising both fists, he kicked sand against Bucky's thigh and raised his chin at him. Bucky loudly protested at the sudden attack and clumsily wiped at his sand-coated trousers as if they weren't already filthy from laying on the beach. He giggled drunkenly and tried without success to prop himself up on his elbows to watch.

"You like playing chicken with them," Steve said, tutting at him.

"It's called strategy, Rogers—," Bucky refuted.

Steve held up a finger to silence him. Surprisingly, Bucky submitted to the gesture, quickly silencing himself by holding a finger to his own lips—though he was grinning behind it. He was humouring him. Mocking him. That just wouldn't do; Steve would have to teach him far better manners.

"You sure you don't enjoy it?" Steve asked, raising a challenging brow at him.

Bucky always liked to reaffirm his distaste for fist fights, but he never hesitated to jump right into them whenever he happened across Steve already in the thick of it. It couldn't all come down to comradery… could it? Bucky never said much coming out of brawls aside from lecturing Steve. He never boasted about winning or complained about losing. There was no glory deep in the depths of his eyes or an empowered pull at his lips. Bucky never raised his nose or prized his bloodied fists. He never showed off his battle scars to impress girls or intimidate boys.

But maybe there was _something_ lingering deep within.

Not pride or adrenaline or vanity… but rage.

There had been times when Bucky stepped in, beating the assailant to the ground with untethered ferocity and hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him until it was Steve who had to put an end to it. Steve, with a body so small and cherry red lips that tasted of the metallic tang of his own blood, had to stumble into Bucky's arms, grasping and pulling at his clothes to make him stop. It hadn't happened often, and Steve was glad for it. Because he had been scared; scared of _him_. There had been something so undeniably animalistic in Bucky that had been near impossible to restrain.

Steve had to wonder where inside him that person existed. It had to be burrowed in deep, lying dormant and waiting, because the boy in front of Steve now was laughing and giddy off the drink, smiling freely into the same unfair world he often cursed. Bucky was youthful and untouched by anger or anxiety, casting his doubts into the sand and leaving them there to later be swept away by the sea. He was happy being lost in the moment, watching Steve like the world around him was nothing but empty space—like he was all Bucky needed.

Steve's face reddened and he had to take pause to find his balance again, but this time it was no fault of the sand. His feet simply followed the sudden weakness in his knees and fell wayside. Clearing his throat, he re-clenched his fists and threw a practice punch into the air the way they had done back when they were just kids. His arms hadn't found much more strength to throw since then, but there was something legible to his efforts these days. With some muscle, it may have been impressive.

"You mess around too much. Play games. Make them chase you," Steve said tauntingly, wanting to get some kind of rise out of him.

"So?" Bucky sat up.

"So that's just a little bit stupid, don't you think?"

"Says the one who never gives them time to chase," Bucky said, "maybe if you did, they'd tire sooner."

"How do you think I got there in the first place if they didn't chase me?"

Bucky groaned and forced himself to stand, idly brushing himself off. Sand fell from him in a wave, but Steve suspected there was a lot more buried in every layer and settling in every crevice. The effort to clean himself off was absolutely wasted. Steve kept his fists up and moved his weight from one foot to the other, creating a familiar path in the sand as he shifted back and forth.

"Sometimes _you_ chase _them_ , Stevie," Bucky laughed knowingly.

"Wanna fight me over it?" Steve threw another punch to the air. "So I can show you how it's done?"

"I've seen you fight… it's not done well."

Steve bounded forward and socked Bucky hard in the shoulder, knowing perfectly well that he could take it. He could never hurt him even if he wanted to. On a better day, Bucky would have barely moved an inch, but, intoxicated, he swayed and almost lost his footing entirely. Trying to save face, he made a show of it, exaggerating his efforts to stand upright and raise his own fists. Bucky swung back, purposely being unbearably cautious with Steve as if one hit too hard might break him. Steve rolled his eyes and attacked again, punching Bucky twice with a little more tenacity in the shoulder and chest. His little fists hit firm muscle and warmth and came away riddled with tingles that quickly distracted him from his initial goal. It was easy for Bucky to take advantage and grab his arm, pulling him in and pinning it behind his back until he was almost subdued. Steve squirmed in Bucky's grasp and managed to free himself only due to his drunken unsteadiness. He pushed Bucky back with his shoulder and then barrelled into him, knocking him down into the sand.

Bucky fell with the surprised "oof" and landed with a soft thud, kicking sand up beneath his feet. They wrestled messily, rolling across the shore with no finesse, grunting and breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Bucky swore and tugged at Steve's tie, pulling him in even closer as their legs tangled. Steve was acutely aware of Bucky's thighs caging him in each time his back hit the sand.

Were Bucky willing to apply any force, he could quickly pin Steve down by grasping his thin wrists and locking his twig legs with his knees.

Instead, he insisted on being soft.

Steve took the material of Bucky's shirt in each fist and took advantage of the declining terrain by pushing his weight to the water's edge where the rising tide swept them up. They both froze at the sudden rush of cold water flooding their clothes and Bucky spluttered and cursed as the tide washed over his face.

Steve let up so Bucky wouldn't drown and sat straddling his thighs, patting his back gently as he coughed up the ocean he'd swallowed. Bucky spat and wrinkled his nose at the taste. Steve could only laugh at the appalled look on his face.

"See, it isn't fair when you have the ocean fight on your behalf," Bucky whined.

"I use whatever means I have access to," Steve stated proudly, "the sea was there and willing to pitch one for the team."

"And what did I ever do to it?"

"Well, I don't know," Steve smirked, "maybe it's still holding a grudge from you wading in to urinate."

"That was one time and I was thirteen! I needed to go and there was nowhere else discrete," Bucky took advantage of the returning tide and splashed Steve's pants.

"You never apologised," Steve shrugged casually and swatted his shoulder in reproach.

"To the ocean?"

"Yes."

"For pissing in it?"

"Yes."

"I didn't apologise then, I refuse to apologise now," Bucky crossed his arms stubbornly.

"The sea is very sad to hear it," Steve tsk-ed.

Bucky sighed heavily as the tide came in again and washed over his soaked clothes. His wet hair fell into his face and dripped down his cheek as he looked down at the dishevelled state of himself. Steve smiled fondly and gently pushed the wet tendrils of hair back.

He was still relatively dry, which was pretty remarkable, all things considered. His crisp shirt fluttered faintly in the breeze, whereas Bucky's stuck tight to his torso, moulding itself almost perfectly to the body inside it. It hugged every curve and edge, making his need for new clothes more evident than it had ever been. Secretly, Steve hoped he wouldn't give in and change them any time soon.

Bucky tried pulling at the collar of his shirt that was straining at his neck. "Can you imagine? Being choked to death by your own clothes?"

Steve snickered and knocked his hands out of the way, undoing the top three buttons for him to help relieve the discomfort. "It's not the clothes trying to kill you—,"

"What? It's the sea?" Bucky scoffed.

"It will get its revenge by any means necessary."

"I appreciate the warning, but I'm still not apologising."

"Your funeral," Steve granted. He allowed his eyes to drift over Bucky and the tan skin of his chest peeking through the opening in his shirt, taking him in in his entirety. Steve swallowed hard and fidgeted nervously, quickly averting his far too curious—and possibly tempted—gaze.

He went to stand up when all the lights behind them suddenly shut off at once, plunging them into complete darkness. They both froze. Steve's thighs instinctively clenched around Bucky as he tensed. Bucky snickered into the dark and shifted beneath him. Their warm breaths suddenly seemed too loud in the silence, combatted only by the gentle waves rolling onto the shore. Steve could feel Bucky leaning in closer; the tickle of his breath on his cheek. He could feel him between his legs, so entirely present under him. He could feel Bucky's hand searching him, trailing from his knee, up the length of his thigh, over his hip, and eventually finding his waist. Steve's breath hitched.

"Your breath smells like hot dogs and vomit," Steve blurted.

Bucky's hand withdrew as he laughed and leaned back against the sand. "Delicious."

Steve clumsily stood up and pulled Bucky to his feet, stumbling slightly as the ocean and wet sand swallowed their ankles. They walked, dripping, back up the beach together, stooping to collect their shoes, socks, and coats where they had left them. Steve shook out his jacket and draped it neatly over his arm, purposely delaying so Bucky would walk ahead of him. There was a definite hesitance to his step, a minute sobering sway that Steve only noticed because he was looking for it. Otherwise, Bucky was at no risk of being pulled aside, and he certainly wasn't going to pass out before getting home.

"The hotdogs seem to have done the trick," Steve noted.

"I think they were drizzled with more sand than mustard though," Bucky said thoughtfully.

"I suppose you'll know for sure sooner rather than later. Think that shit scratches on the way out?" Steve proposed the idea.

Bucky stopped abruptly so Steve walked into him. "You're gross," he griped, but then seemed to consider it for a moment. "Nah, I think the grain is too fine."

"Promise not to tell me about your findings?"

"Cross my heart," Bucky grinned and resumed walking.

Once they were off the sand, Steve slipped on his shoes and waited as Bucky struggled to put his own on without falling over. He was quick to surrender and sit down, taking his time with the laces. Steve stared into the distance, searching for the nearest streetlights they could follow. He didn't actually know the way back to the train station and suspected that the last train was due very soon if it hadn't already come and gone. They didn't have much more time to waste. Bucky stood up, triumphant at not somehow stupidly tying his shoelaces together by mistake, and took off ahead of him in the direction of the park. Steve reached out and grabbed his arm in a moment of panic.

"Do you have any train money?" he asked and felt his own pockets.

Bucky backtracked and ran a disgruntled hand through his wet hair. "No, I thought you did."

"I spent the last of my cash on hot dogs," Steve said, quickly frustrated. He began feeling Bucky's pockets too, desperately hoping he'd find something buried in at least one of them.

Bucky stumbled at the brash hands digging into his pockets and threw up his arms in surrender, allowing it to happen before even attempting to talk Steve down. He was either uncharacteristically too calm about this, or still too drunk to give a damn. Steve could only envy him either way.

"How much did you spend trying to win that stupid bear?" Steve asked, dumbfounded.

Bucky paused and considered it a moment, trying to calculate the night's spending on his fingers. He seemed to be at a loss as he tried piecing together hazy memories of thoughtless spending in the heat of the moment. Then, finally, he winced and hung his head in shame.

"Two? Three bucks? Maybe."

Steve spluttered. He ought to be angry, but instead, he could only laugh until his sides hurt. It was a ridiculous situation they were in, both like and unlike some of the trouble they had gotten into in the past. There was the time they had snuck out as teenagers to see the Empire State Building just after it had finished being built. They couldn't afford the dollar each that it cost to ride up the elevator to the observation deck and were carted out after they tried slipping past security. Instead, they had to settle for gazing up at the building from the sidewalk, the scruffs of their necks still aching where the security guard had grabbed them too hard. Worse though was the reception Steve got from his mother when he crept back in through his window that night; he'd been housebound for two weeks afterward. Bucky was barred by his parents from seeing him for three weeks… not that that stopped him as he'd slipped through Steve's window the very next night.

A few years prior, they had taken the Southern ferry only for Steve to accidentally fall overboard during a foolish attempt to impress Bucky. He had floundered hopelessly in the water, watching the ferry sail on without him as he coughed up his lungs. And then Bucky dove in after him. They were two idiots doggy paddling in water that was a few degrees below comfortable, staring at each other in shock and awe before laughing. Luckily they weren't far from land, though Steve's limbs had felt sore for days afterward from the effort it took to swim after the ferry that was nothing but a speck in the distance by then.

Trouble was no stranger to them. They had gone and marked their first day of independence with the whims of bedlam they had long since grown accustomed to. It only seemed fitting to move into their first home only to find themselves unable to get back to it.

"Are you having a mental break?" Bucky asked, only half joking.

"No, no," Steve wiped gleeful tears from his eyes and held the laughter-induced pain in his side. "It's just, you pissed away three bucks to impress some dame, and you didn't even remember to get her number or ask her out."

Bucky frowned. "Oh… didn't I?"

"That's the most expensive non-date you've ever had." Steve tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, undeniably pleased.

"Could you quit taking pleasure in my hardships and start thinking of a way to get us home?" Bucky's voice had a hard edge to it, but on closer inspection, Steve could see the pull of a shy smile flirting at the corners of his lips.

"Fine. I'll stop rubbing your face in it… for now," Steve promised with a tired sigh.

"I make your life so difficult," Bucky sympathised mockingly. He tugged at Steve's arm and they continued on, turning at the next corner.

"Shh." Steve suddenly grabbed Bucky's shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

At the end of the street, there was a delivery man unloading stock from the back of a freezer truck and carting boxes into the open doorway of a local business. Steve could hear the echo of their voices in the still air as they conducted the transaction. He realised, with some trepidation, that they were probably the only other people awake for miles around.

"Act drunk," Steve insisted quickly.

"Steve… I _am_ drunk," Bucky reminded him.

"Drunker."

Bucky glanced at the freezer truck and quirked an eyebrow. "How drunk are we talking?"

"So drunk you can barely walk, but not so drunk that you're about to blow chunks in the back of his truck."

Bucky eased his arm around Steve's shoulders and leaned into him, purposely buckling his knees to contend with the height difference and to play into the narrative. He dipped his head and allowed almost his full weight to fall onto Steve for support, slurring some incoherent nonsense that Steve suspected weren't even words at all.

Steve tensed at the sudden drop of Bucky's dead weight and strained to cart him down the sidewalk toward the truck.

"You couldn't have waited until we were closer?" Steve hissed through sharply gritted teeth.

"Shut up, you'll blow our cover," Bucky whispered.

Steve rolled his eyes and hefted Bucky more securely against his side, leading him haphazardly down the street. He slowed as they reached the driver just as he was closing up the back of his truck. By now, Steve was genuinely wheezing from the stale air and the fatigue, the rattling sound inside his lungs grabbing the driver's attention.

"I don't mean to be a nuisance, but I found him passed out on the beach," Steve started. "I haven't been able to get much out of him but I think he lives over in Brooklyn. You wouldn't be heading that way by any chance?"

The driver eyed them suspiciously, taking in Bucky's drenched clothes and hair and Steve's sand coated, but mostly dry, attire. They looked a right state; the kind that invited the wrong kind of attention and the most invasive of questions. Steve tensed at the lingering silence and his hand instinctively clutched onto the back of Bucky's shirt. He refused to make eye contact out of fear that his own gaze would be guilt-ridden, filled with some of the sordid thoughts he sometimes had. Steve tucked his fingers into his palm, convinced that any watchful eye would see them and know they'd unbuttoned Bucky's shirt and grazed the hot skin of his chest. His weakened legs shook, still electrified by the memory of straddling Bucky's thighs.

The driver took a cigarette and a match from his shirt pocket and lit up carefully, casting his eyes up and down the length of the empty street, searching for any kind of alternative.

Steve felt faint.

"I might be," he finally said around the cigarette between his teeth.

Steve's fears ran numb in a sudden wave, overwhelmed by relief. "Would we be able to hitch a ride? Please? I don't think I could manage to get him all the way to the train station."

Steve didn't have to play up his inability to lift a sack of flour, let alone the weight of a grown man. His knees were threatening to fold beneath him and the vein in his forehead was already beginning to protrude and pulsate menacingly. Steve took note to slog Bucky one later for playing his part a little too well.

"Last train left over a half hour ago, anyway," the driver said and opened the back of his truck. "I don't have any room for both of ya up front."

"I'll stay in the back with him, just in case he comes round," Steve said.

"Uh huh. And if he does, tell him that if he breaks it, he buys it," he warned.

"Don't think he'd understand, but sure, I'll tell him," Steve promised. He leaned Bucky against the open back of the truck and tried to lift him up into it.

The driver stepped forward and grabbed Bucky roughly under the arms and heaved him easily inside before climbing in and dragging him in the remainder of the way, laying him down without much regard. Steve winced at the sound of Bucky hitting the cold metal and saw his expression contort for the briefest of seconds before once again falling slack.

"Whereabouts in Brooklyn, son?"

Steve told him the address and noticed as the driver rubbed between his eyes with a tense forefinger and thumb. The bad reputation of the neighbourhood preceded itself. Steve tensed and shrunk in on himself, making his already poor excuse of a frame look even smaller. They had no other options, and the desperation didn't go by unnoticed. The driver grumbled under his breath but gestured for Steve to climb in the back, and then slammed the doors shut behind him.

"It's gonna be cold in there," he shouted through the metal.

Steve called back with a faint thank you and sat down on one of the sturdier boxes. He kicked Bucky's limp form with his foot, startling him to attention. Bucky peered around with one open eye before daring to sit up and rub at the pain at the back of his head where it had hit the floor.

"I almost cursed then and there," Bucky muttered and sat up slowly.

"It's the least that you deserve," Steve grinned teasingly.

"For what? I played my part perfectly."

"Too bloody well. We almost ended up a heap on the sidewalk. I can only imagine how heavy you'd be had you actually passed out."

Bucky sat down next to him, smiling fondly to himself. "Do you remember that time we got drunk when we were sixteen?"

Steve pondered it for a second, remembering hazy moments amidst patches of missing time. He remembered the illicitness of it, the rush of doing something they weren't supposed to. He remembered the adrenaline of intoxication coursing through his veins and blurring every viable sensation. He remembered the way the bitter taste of cheap booze bullied his tongue into submission until the drink flowed like water. Steve could only faintly recall the hours passing like minutes, each one robbing him of inhibitions, but gifting him the freedom not to care. Above all, he remembered his head falling onto Bucky's shoulder, burying his face longingly in the soft crook of his neck, breathing him in, and the comfort of Bucky's arm at his back.

Steve remembered being cradled against Bucky's chest, the sway of his body in his steady arms, the familiarity of his own bed and the safety of being tucked inside his blankets. He heard the melody of Bucky's laugh and the lulling comfort of his soft voice, but even then Steve couldn't remember the words. He knew he dreamed in the easy slumber of drunken paradise, imagining the blissful kiss of Bucky's lips.

Steve remembered waking the next morning to the warmth of Bucky's body curled up beside him under the covers, his expression so soft and unguarded. Steve was captured by just how beautiful he was. Just absolutely blindsided and struck dumb by the sensations he couldn't dismiss. And it seemed an impossibility to wake up next to someone better. Steve remembered moving in closer and laying his head down on the second half of Bucky's pillow and their hands idly touching, Steve's fingers grazing the smooth skin of Bucky's palm. He'd drifted back to sleep, desperately hoping he'd wake this time to hollow feelings… and was relieved to find they had only intensified.

Of course, Steve remembered.

He would always remember falling in love at the tender age of sixteen.

"You carried me home, didn't you?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. "You were light as a feather."

"I was a complete mess," Steve corrected, blushing profusely.

"It was your first time drinking, Steve. How were you supposed to know?"

"Aside from you warning me?" Steve scoffed. He'd done so well thus far to suppress the memories of that drizzly afternoon. Or at least the embarrassing parts; stupid things he'd said and risky things he might have done had his limbs not felt numb.

"That was my mistake. I inadvertently invited you to test your limits. I should have known better." Bucky stifled a laugh in his sleeve and feigned a cough, turning his gaze up to the roof of the truck as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his life.

Steve refused to take the bait. Knowing Bucky had made Steve incredibly patient and he had long since become immune to his games. He hated to bite his tongue but knew better than to bark his rebuttals. It mattered more to be taken seriously. He calmly crossed his arms and shivered in the face of the freezer vents, willing his body to hold out until they made it to Brooklyn. He may have asked for Bucky's coat or scooted closer, but his patience didn't yet allow his pride to give in and ask for help.

Glancing over though, he realised that Bucky wasn't fairing any better. His soaking wet clothes had taken too kindly to the refrigeration and captured the freezing temperatures. He was huddled inside his dry coat like his life depended on it, shuddering wildly. The coat was undersized already but was straining now around the ungainly mass that was Bucky, pulling at the seams and threatening to split apart if he shook any harder.

Steve's frustration quickly faded.

Shrugging off his own coat, he offered it to Bucky who refused with a stiff shake of his head. Steve rolled his eyes and tugged at Bucky's sleeve.

"Swap with me," he insisted.

Bucky slowly shed his coat and switched it with Steve's. It fit perfectly; another coat that once belonged to Steve's father. And Bucky's, which he had owned since he was a young teen, was just right for Steve—patches in the elbows, missing buttons, and all. He flicked up the collar and nestled his chin comfortably into it, tucking both hands into the pockets. It didn't do much to combat the cold, but Steve was comforted and lulled by the familiar scent of Bucky.

Steve leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, rocking gently with the sway of the truck. It was easy to lose track of time in there, slowly dozing off and disappearing for minutes or hours at a time; Steve could hardly tell which. Eventually, he heard the scrape of the box next to him and then felt an arm slip around his waist. A hand squeezed his side and then brushed up and down the length of his back at a quiet pace. Steve suddenly felt very awake. Bucky's fingers trembled for a while, and then warmed to Steve. His touch steadied; each brush of his hand purposeful. Steve leaned into him and rested his head against his arm.

"Steve?" Bucky asked in a hushed tone.

Steve hummed quietly in response.

The truck suddenly halted and they both jolted forward, almost falling cleanly from their respective boxes. Steve stood up first and shook off Bucky's coat in a fluster, tossing it back at him just as the driver opened up the doors. He glanced in with a sly grin, taking in their paled skin and bluish lips with an odd sense of glee, as if two ridiculous youths ought to know better than to roll in the sand in the middle of the night… and he probably had a point.

Steve clambered out of the truck and glanced back, smiling to himself when he saw Bucky stumbling out after him, purposely playing up his intoxication once again to hold up the narrative. He clumsily grabbed for Steve's shoulder and used him for support before he took off slowly down the street, walking right past their apartment building. Steve faked a tired sigh and thanked the driver for his aid. He had reason to cut the conversation short as Bucky seemingly fell into the gutter and broke out into song, shouting loud into the dark abyss.

Steve apologised profusely as he walked away and kicked Bucky lightly in the ribs, urging him to get up and cut out the nonsense. It took all his restraint to contain his laughter. They listened for the sound of the engine roaring to life and the quiet grit of the tires on the road. Once the engine quieted, Bucky sat up and peered around Steve's legs.

"We're in the clear," he affirmed and stood up, dusting off his legs.

"Except now the neighbours surely hate us," Steve pointed out and led the way back to the apartment.

"They were going to hate us anyway," Bucky shrugged.

"Why?" Steve let them in and they trailed the sad six flights of stairs to their door.

"What, you with your constant record playing. And my… well, just me in general."

Bucky kicked off his shoes in the doorway and carefully shed Steve's coat, laying both it and his own coat over the back of the couch. He unbuttoned his trousers and made way for the bathroom, clearly desperate to wash off the sand and seawater. He tugged aggressively at his shirt buttons and dropped the sodden thing on the floor, sighing in absolute relief to be free of it.

Steve's skin ran hot and his heart rate quickened, the heavy pulse thrumming in his ears. He told himself it was just a reaction to the overwhelming number of stairs and focused on the task at hand. Averting his gaze, Steve nudged a few boxes aside with his foot, clearing himself a path to the bedroom so he could make up the beds, knowing full well Bucky would want to pass out in his the second he was clean. Since he'd gone to the effort to label the contents of every box, it didn't take long to find what he needed, after which he had no other distractions.

He was really here. He was living with Bucky in this tiny apartment, building a life of sorts with him. Somehow, he was still in awe, though he never should have imagined anything less. All things considered, Steve was in a good place—with all that he'd already lost and all that he'd never had. Of course, it was a preference not to be itchy with sand everywhere—including some unsavoury parts—but that was probably too much to ask for.

Bucky had been in the bathroom for ages. So long, in fact, that Steve had no choice but to check on him. Groaning, he stepped around scattered boxes and knocked gently on the door a few times with no response. He hesitated for only a moment before daring himself to turn the knob and glance inside. Bucky was on the floor of the bathroom, wrapped in towels with his head on the tiles, snoring quietly. Steve shook his head and smiled to himself. He hadn't expected Bucky to succumb so early. Of course, he wasn't in any position to interrupt his boozy slumber and moving him was entirely out of the question.

Instead, he nestled Bucky under a blanket and tucked a pillow beneath his head, leaving him there for the rest of the night. And he grudgingly went to his own bed still smelling like the salty tang of the ocean, dusting his pillow with the sand buried amidst the strands of his windswept hair.

There, he was quick to doze, somehow unbothered by how different everything seemed, even in the dark. Even his bed, the same one he had slept in for much of his life, felt remarkably dissimilar as if moving it from one place to another rebuilt the frame and stuffed the mattress anew. It was foreign to him now. The whole world, in fact, was recreated in an image not quite clear to him yet.

And he didn't mind.

It wasn't much, but it was home.

* * *

Thank you so incredibly much for reading, guys! I was really taken with that far too brief moment between Steve and Bucky in Civil War where they reminisce about their past, and I wanted to write about it and really delve into how that moment may have played out. I hope you enjoyed it :)


	3. Chapter 3: Couch Seams (Bucky's POV)

The bathroom floor did not make for a pleasant place to sleep. Waking up, Bucky's back had many disagreements with the hard surface, each one making it an absolute pain to sit up. He forcefully stretched every sore muscle, urging them to soften. The blanket, which he sure didn't remember retrieving, and the towels he had wrapped himself in as a makeshift blanket had slipped throughout the night and left him somewhat… exposed, but he was far too tired to care, never mind if Steve had seen or not. Bucky shook them free and stood up, taking one towel to wrap around his waist and leaving the rest, along with the blanket and pillow, behind him as he wandered, disgruntled and woozy, to the bedroom and peered inside.

Steve was comfortably curled up in his bed with a naked leg slipping out from the covers, his head half nestled against his arm. His dirty clothes from the night before were abandoned on the floor, still dusted with sand. It seemed he hadn't wanted to put on new clothes without bathing first and chose to sleep naked in place of trying to move a drunken Bucky from their bathroom floor. He'd given up their good pillow to Bucky, instead settling for one with less down, now murmuring into it some quiet, nonsensical things Bucky couldn't understand. At least he wasn't arguing, Bucky thought and chuckled softly to himself before turning away and leaving the door slightly ajar.

Bucky, for once, felt safe in leaving him be. It was an entirely new sense of ease, the promise of coming home to Steve every night. He would never dare admit it to him, knowing he'd feel patronised, but Bucky took comfort in this new life they'd started to build. Maybe it was the hangover, but Bucky felt particularly gratified; his head raging with a headache and completely sick in the stomach, but gratified all the same. He looked at their tiny apartment and all the stacked boxes inside it and felt undeniably warm. He saw the prominent cracks in the plaster, the patches of paint coming off in scales and the irreparably scuffed floor and thought; _'I can't believe I live here with Steve.'_ Its decrepit appearance did not darken his outlook beyond the shade of grey it had always existed in.

If anything, it suited them, the messes that they were.

Bucky was trying not to be too thrilled by the change but found that his restraint was failing miserably. He wanted to relish these moments, even if it meant seeming foolish or all-out ridiculous. He wanted to admit his relief and cast his elation where everyone could see it. The world's disinterest or suspicious repulsion bore little concern for him since he knew his frequent acts of skirt chasing did enough to keep everything at a fairly harmless whisper. It wouldn't be the most dangerous thing to do… but, still, something held him back.

Bucky felt it, the all-consuming happiness, but he kept it inside, knowing his urges were far too impulsive.

Perhaps he was too invested in some kind of wild daydream; as if this truly changed anything. _Living with_ Steve and _being with_ Steve were two vastly different concepts that wouldn't just naturally come hand in hand. As much as he liked to imagine it, he couldn't simply magic it into reality. And even if he could, he wouldn't think to try. Bucky shook his head, denying his heart the right to long for someone off limits to him. He had survived without acting out of desire but endured the gruelling taunt of wanting what he couldn't have. It hadn't gotten any easier over the years, and it was safe to assume it wouldn't get easier over the years still to come, either.

From what he faintly remembered from the night before, as the drunken sludge of incoherence shallowed, he'd fallen in love all over again in the sand. It was hard not to, what with Steve's hands clasped in the material of his shirt, his thighs straddling Bucky's lap, the enticing heat of his lips just about close enough to kiss. Of course, the details of this memory were adrift in a curtain of haze. Too much booze and countless hours of sleep deprivation. Maybe he had remembered it the way he wanted to. Steve probably hadn't so much as straddled as he had perched daintily upon, and his hands were likely the only thing keeping Bucky sitting upright rather than laying back and drowning in the tide. His lips were probably at a reasonable distance, pulled taut in a thin line at the impossible prospect of carrying Bucky home.

Bucky made Steve nervous for all the wrong reasons.

Outside the bedroom, the apartment was solemn. Its compact four walls and singular fogged window somehow felt horrendously expansive, even with their packed belongings cluttering the floor. They had barely enough to mimic a normal lifestyle and yet the tiny apartment made it seem ample, maybe even hoarded. He still felt inexplicably trapped in the open and vulnerable to the dangers it invited, with too far to run and no place to hide. His head dared brush the tops of doorways and yet the roof felt cavernous to him like his voice would echo into it for miles and miles. It helped to have another voice solidify the walls. Steve was most reasonable when he was sleeping, but Bucky resented the quiet. He longed for more trouble if it meant Steve would be in it with him. Anything to fill that void. He wanted to see those walls and truly trust that they could encase him.

Bucky tried to distract himself; tried to think beyond these anxieties he'd had since he was a child. Somehow he always came back to these immature trepidations, suppressing them as best he could with the right diversions. A hangover hardly helped, is mood fouled by the gross sensations of mild alcohol poisoning. He couldn't focus on any one distraction long enough for it to be of any use to him.

Still, he had to make the effort to at least try.

Bucky turned on the faucet and ducked his head down, drinking from the tepid flow of water with a near unquenchable thirst. It hardly settled his dry mouth but did seem to ease the churning in his stomach a little. Sighing in mild relief, he wiped his chin dry on the back of his hand and blinked a few times to collect himself.

With some time to spare before going to his first job of the day, he set about unpacking the boxes Steve had promptly labelled 'Kitchen', making no effort to handle their second-hand plates and cutlery quietly. There wasn't much to sift through, so he took his time, dragging out the process as much as possible. He strained his ears for that lonesome echo but the clatter of ceramic and steel filled the small apartment without resonance.

Slowly, but ever so surely, that claustrophobic sound quieted the fine terror inside.

It wasn't long before Steve came stumbling out of the bedroom wrapped in his dirty sheets, hair quaffed into total disarray by the salty wind and the sudden disturbance. Spotting Bucky, he clutched at the sheets more tightly and shuffled inelegantly toward the bathroom, his feet tripping over the dragging material. Steve blinked a few times too many and then shot Bucky with a practiced evil eye.

"You look a complete sight, Buck," Steve declared, very matter-of-fact. He was suddenly grinning ear to ear and his cheeks were all too flushed with wicked satisfaction. He couldn't hold his fury long enough to evoke Bucky's guilt for waking him.

"Says you, splayed out with everything on show," Bucky retorted with a sly grin and resumed emptying the boxes. He knew he was making a right mess of it, putting things where they really ought not to go, but he trusted that Steve would reorganise everything later in a practical manner. That or they'd both live their tumultuous lives in synchrony, forever at a loss as to where to find a spatula or whisk—as if they'd find a use for either one.

"I was not splayed out," Steve argued calmly.

"I saw enough," Bucky teased, lying easily. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen more than his fair share of Steve before; they'd known each other long enough and accidents happened from time to time. Sometimes you saw what you weren't supposed to, and it was an unspoken rule never to speak of it again.

Not that Bucky didn't think of it often enough.

"Well. It's all your fault, really. I wasn't the one who was passed out naked on the bathroom floor."

"I didn't pass out. I was just going to shut my eyes for a minute or two and made a conscious effort to cover myself up first."

Bucky thought it best not to tempt endless mocking by admitting the state he had found himself in upon waking, on the off chance Steve hadn't seen it.

"My sheets are filled with sand," Steve complained and shook some of the grit from his bedding to prove it.

Bucky snickered, still not really feeling all that guilty. Steve was still smiling, so he knew it was safe to take it in jest. "Sorry," he offered lamely with a cocky pursing of his lips.

"I'm really convinced," Steve pretended to sniff and disappeared into the bathroom, trailing his sad sand-ridden sheets behind him and catching it in the door as he closed it.

In his absence, Bucky got dressed hastily, meeting the bare minimum standard of presentable. He smoothed back his hair as best he could, knowing it was in absolute disarray. There wasn't any time to tame it, having dried and settled itself this way. He knew he looked tired, too, dark bags under his dead looking eyes. There wasn't anything he could do about it. It had to be passable at least, and he told himself, only half convincingly, that he would make a greater effort tomorrow.

When Steve returned his hair was still damp from bathing and he smelled of the soap Bucky liked. He was dressed to the nines in some of his better fitting clothes, albeit with a crooked tie that was longer in the back than the front. It was the sort of thing he would typically wear on one of their double dates, not on an average day around the house.

"You're looking a bit ostentatious today. Going somewhere?" Bucky asked with a raised brow, purposely trying not to eye him too clearly. He didn't want to be caught staring.

He stepped around a couple boxes—something they were both fast getting sick of—and fixed Steve's tie, loosening the knot and correcting the length. Even still, it didn't fit him quite right, hanging low enough to tuck into the waistband of his trousers. Bucky wasn't much good with ties either. It was a harsh reminder that they were nothing but boys playing at a man's game. Still, Bucky thought he looked rather dashing, all things considered. His shirt was ruffled and his pants were badly hemmed at the ankles, but Steve carried himself differently when he wore them. He was more confident. His usual sarcasm had a sudden biting edge and a real coolness about it that sometimes struck Bucky dumb. It was Steve's humility tangled intimately with his true charisma; something only Bucky seemed receptive to—nobody else knew Steve well enough to recognise the difference.

Sometimes Bucky wanted people to see Steve the way _he_ saw him.

Maybe then they wouldn't curse Bucky so for loving him.

"Cemetery," Steve said quietly.

Bucky's heart immediately sank. He recognised the bitter tang of carelessness and accidental insensitivity. There was no way he could have known, but he felt incredibly foolish for not guessing. His gaze flickered with heavy condolences and regret, but Steve waved off the concern with a sympathetic smile. He knew Bucky only ever meant well. If anything, he probably appreciated the distraction from the whole ordeal. But that didn't make Bucky's tongue feel any less swollen with idiocy.

"I could go with you," Bucky offered gently, already knowing Steve would turn him down.

"No, it's okay. I haven't gone since the funeral and I just… I need to do it alone," Steve said, "besides, you've got to work."

"I could blow it off. Hell, I would—will—blow it off if you want me to."

Bucky kept fiddling with Steve's tie, straightening it, pulling it tight and loose and tight again, then finally tucking it carefully under the collar of his shirt. He smoothed out the creases and corrected one of Steve's improperly aligned buttons.

"I know. But I don't want you to," Steve smiled gently. He was allowing Bucky to groom him, not because he truly needed it, but because he understood how it settled Bucky's nerves.

"I won't be home till late—," Bucky fretted.

"I know. It's okay."

Bucky wasn't so sure.

This was unprecedented. Neither of them knew how one was supposed to act when visiting the graves of their deceased parents. Steve had grown up without his father and bore witness to his mother's prolonged grief, but hadn't any personal connection to death until her passing. Bucky was luckier than most with all his immediate family members in fair health, having lost his grandparents many years prior to his birth. They existed only in the pale recollections of long-ago stories told in fleeting moments, merely giving a name to strangers he'd never meet. It was easy to dismiss them almost as figments of imagination. Bucky didn't—couldn't—miss them. He was still ignorant to loss. An outsider to that kind of irrevocable pain.

Steve, meanwhile, had met loss in slow, cold touches and then a swift and unforgiving burn. It seemed wrong to leave him to face that alone, no matter how terrifying and uncertain the prospect of facing it with him was. Bucky felt far younger than his years and imbalanced in oversized shoes he'd never had the curse to walk in before. And as much as he liked this new life of theirs, he had to take on all the burden it carried. He had to grow up faster than he would have liked because it wasn't fair for Steve to grow up alone.

Bucky couldn't let that happen.

Steve cleared his throat. "Aren't you running late?"

"Yes," Bucky sighed. He knew he had just been dismissed.

Steve left first. Bucky trailed out behind him and they tread the six flights down together in absolute silence, the stillness eventually interrupted by Steve's heavy breaths after the second set of stairs. The air outside was oddly frigid and the street was obscured in an unusual layer of fog, casting the world into ominous shadow. Bucky shivered and turned up his collar against the still iciness. The brilliant summer heat had disappeared sometime between those dark early hours of the morning and now, taking all that careless energy with it.

Steve—trembling already—turned with a solemn gaze and touched Bucky's arm all gentle-like, holding his wrist for barely a moment before letting go. He was warm for a second and then gone the next, leaving Bucky to instinctively withdraw his arm and cradle it across his chest. Steve forced his hands deep into his pockets, fingers picking at the lining the way they so often did, steadily making holes that made it impossible to keep even lint. It was his sole nervous habit, one that sometimes left him penniless or without his house key whenever he was distracted enough to forget the wounds in his jackets.

It hardly compared to Bucky, though. He was at ease for the better part of his days, able to put his head down and go through the motions with moments of laughter and immaturity dotted throughout. But when his fears struck, they knocked him flat. It helped to act against them, to pretend they weren't there, but, the older he got, the more he found to be afraid of. It had long since surpassed the realms of reason and had breached something existential. Bucky was afraid of who he was and the things he felt and the future he, until very recently, hadn't been prepared to have.

He knew that there was truly something to nurturing his life. He knew that those joyous moments, and even the monotonous daze surrounding them, shouldn't be ignored, but his doubts and confusion had a way of haunting him. And he wasn't adept at taking it in stride, instead acting thoughtlessly and waiting for it to pass.

Bucky knew he still had so far yet to go. And he was terrified.

Steve, despite all the adversity he had faced and the shorter than fair life he was bound to live, had only gotten braver. Sure, he was often impossible—recklessly foolish and a little too headstrong—but he had courage Bucky knew not. He was breakable only in bones and not in spirit. Even when his lungs were wracked with a fit of asthma or his body folded beneath an attack of the flu, Steve was resilient. And Bucky sometimes couldn't help but envy him for it.

Sometimes he swore he felt his spirit breaking. He felt it tearing at his edges and the fears he tried so hard to ignore bled into his wounds. His nervous habits found ways to hide, even in places he couldn't find them unless he looked hard and long. And sometimes they revealed themselves in the most unexpected of ways. The kind that shook Bucky to his core.

Bucky had found something horrid within himself. Something nervous and itching, and tortured into something furious. He didn't find any particular joy in fighting and never even thought about the honour of winning or the shame of losing a street brawl, only ever stepping in to defend Steve and rescue him from a fight he couldn't win. But even still he sometimes found himself swept away into some kind of frenzy, hurting his opponent far worse than was warranted. He never liked it, not during, and especially not after. The guilt following these cracks in his resolve stuck with him for days at a time, leaving him restless and quiet, totally unreceptive to Steve's attempts at consolation.

Bucky tried to tell himself he hadn't any choice, that his intentions were pure and that it was enough to defend his actions. The rage that took him was nothing more than instinct that should easily be dismissed as natural. Deep down though, it scared him. He couldn't understand it and couldn't always keep it reigned in. Bucky knew he was horrendously pessimistic and had a tendency to repress the worst of his negativities to the point that they overwhelmed him. And he was ashamed to admit his faults. Especially to Steve. Bucky couldn't bear to see Steve's trust and faith in him shatter. It was horrid enough even imagining it waver.

Bucky turned his gaze to the steady stream of cars passing them, watching them go by and losing himself to the steady hum of their motors.

This was where they had to part ways.

"I'll see you when I get home," Steve assured kindly, hoping to quell Bucky's concerns—not that he ever could.

Bucky watched Steve go with heavy-set eyes as he vanished into the fog, his oversized coat catching in the subtle breeze and flapping at his back. Steve dipped his head and walked with a steady step that Bucky could hardly dream to replicate. It was a strength that knew no bounds. Bucky was transfixed by it for the longest time, left standing on the sidewalk well after he had lost sight of Steve's blonde locks. He felt torn. Instinct told him to follow. His fears warned him to stay close, to be the brace he sometimes felt Steve needed. But really it was Bucky who was too easily crippled by torments he was still too naïve to understand.

Steve was his brace.

He tried to take that as a comfort.

Instinct and reason sometimes had a way of defying one another and so he allowed his feet to carry him in what felt like the wrong direction, arriving late to his first job of the day. His stomach was still churning, perhaps even worse than before now that his mind had been swept into a commotion. The sickly sensation coursed through him, curdling his insides and causing his skin to exude an ever-present sheen of sweat. Bucky felt pale and was sure he looked it too. Which was probably the only thing keeping his less than impressed boss from telling him off. On better days, Bucky was more than a fair worker so this one-time occurrence could be forgiven with time—or at least that's what he hoped. He cast an apologetic eye as he lazily stacked shelves, heaving boxes as though the task could very well be the death of him.

Any more alcohol and it may have been.

Once or twice, when he felt sure he wasn't being observed, Bucky leaned his arm against the shelves and rested his feverish forehead in the crook of his elbow, urging himself not to be sick. The mundanity of a repetitive job allowed his mind to wander from his hangover to Steve. He pictured him frail—not unlike his usual self—and red-eyed, cheeks glistening and skin flushed red. His dread was catching. When Steve felt trapped amidst the chaos, Bucky was always swept out alongside him in that same horrific tide. And he would wade out deeper and deeper, swimming into that threatening current with every intention to keep up. Little else seemed worth the sacrifice.

Bucky wiped the sweat from his brow and aired out his shirt.

"You aren't looking so good."

Bucky startled and turned. Jackson was standing timidly at the end of the aisle, his feet half dancing back and forth as if tempted to flee. Bucky's brow furrowed and he nudged aside his half-filled stock with his foot, gesturing for Jackson to meet him halfway. He did, but ever so cautiously. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets—Bucky suspected balled into tight fists. His ever-broad shoulders were slackened, deflating the usual proud puffiness of his chest. He looked smaller. And yet Bucky felt menaced.

His reputation aside, Jackson was usually gallant and easy going. He had a bad tendency to run his mouth, but wasn't one to start trouble and had warmed to Bucky over the last year, eventually either forgetting or forgiving the rumours that had for the longest time followed him like a bad smell. He had been kind. A friend. Bucky wanted to trust that this abrupt change in his demeanour and the stony inflection in his eye was nothing more than a symptom of his drinking the night before.

Bucky wanted to believe it. But he wasn't _that_ naïve. He had seen his fair share of belligerence and bigotry and had little faith that much, if anything, would ever actually change. Bucky knew by now what repressed homophobia looked like. He recognised the disgusted curling of the lip and the tension pulsing at the temples. He had no other defence than to become cold, and had long since started practicing the art of being dismissive.

"Speak for yourself," Bucky said, his voice stale.

"I'm surprised you came to work today," Jackson ventured cautiously.

"Can't be too surprised, since you came all the way out here to see me."

After a lingering hesitation, Bucky backed up further into the aisle, luring Jackson in with him so they could speak more privately without any prying eyes or strained ears. He was risking his job as it was, working like an impertinent teenager, and saw no reason to make matters worse by getting caught socialising when he was supposed to be stocking shelves.

Jackson gnawed on the inside of his cheek. His skin ran a faint shade of nervous pink and deepened to an almost furious red. He refused to meet Bucky's eye. Instead, he cast his gaze to the floor, hardly blinking as he swallowed whatever pride he had left and willed himself to speak.

"I figured I should warn you," Jackson said finally

"About what?"

"About Paul."

"What about Paul?" Bucky huffed. His stomach was already sinking, the hangover induced churns ceasing abruptly.

"He saw you last night. On the beach… with Steve," Jackson murmured tensely, peering back over his shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bucky spoke plainly.

But he knew. He understood all too well what it must have looked like from afar; two young men laying together in the sand, hands tangled into each other's clothes, thighs clasped around laps, faces close and smiles dazzled. Even from a distance anyone could see and recognise Bucky's longing—his ridiculous love-struck dizziness.

"I saw it as well. Took everything to restrain Paul and talk him down. For now at least," Jackson said. "You know how he's far more reasonable drunk than he is sober."

"So you think he's being unreasonable," Bucky tested.

Jackson looked at him with a piercing glare, warning him not to suggest anything untoward. It was dangerous to say such things, particularly in a public place where anyone with any kind of dreadful mindset might overhear. Nobody wanted to be implicated. Bucky had been extremely lucky to have suffered so little since the talk of his sexuality began to circulate last year.

"I think there are better ways to deal with a problem than to break its teeth on the curb is all," Jackson said finally.

A customer rounded the corner and traced the aisle, browsing the shelves with an eavesdropping hesitance. Bucky caught Jackson's arm and dragged him back into the stockroom, knowing full well that only staff was permitted to enter. They had to be quick.

"I don't know what _problem_ you're talking about," Bucky hissed.

"People have been whispering for a long time, Barnes. I tried to ignore it, but when there's shit there to support what they're saying…"

"What? Two drunk idiots wrestling on the beach? Play fighting?"

"There didn't seem to be a whole lot of fighting going on," Jackson pushed.

"Steve's got shit lungs. How long do you think he can fight before they start giving out?"

Bucky was urging him to dig no deeper than he already had. After all, Bucky and Steve hadn't done anything, let alone something wrong. Perhaps Bucky's desires were there, but he had never acted on them. Not with Steve. He knew it was far too risky to ever do such a thing. Instead, he bedded men seeking the same intimate touch, the same glorious heat of another man's hands, tongue, and cock. Men who knew to keep their mouth shut and would never think to address him by name on the street.

Bucky had learned to live in secret, only ever pushing the boundaries his suppressed soul screamed to be free from. He felt he deserved that much.

"Look, I'm not the one you have to convince," Jackson assured him, "I'm not here to fight you. But Paul's furious."

"How furious?"

"Enough to break your fucking ribs the next time he sees you," Jackson said severely.

"So? What? I shouldn't go to the docks tonight?"

"Or ever."

"That's ridiculous and you know it. I'm not quitting my job just because Paul decided he saw something." Bucky was enraged and beyond shattered. It was one thing to have persistent, hateful murmurings and disgusted eyes crowding him, but Bucky couldn't withstand this kind of judgement. He refused to lose his job to someone else's bigotry.

Jackson sighed heavily and rubbed tirelessly at his stubbled jaw. "It's your funeral. I just thought I should let you know. Figured you'd be smarter than to show up when you know what's waiting for you."

"Well. Now I know," Bucky said flatly. "We're done here."

"You're welcome," Jackson muttered and turned away after one last, lingering look. His eyes had softened for only a few seconds, conveying some kind of well-meaning concern. But it quickly dissipated and hardened once more, coming off callous.

Bucky waited for him to leave first, far too furious to get back to work as if nothing was wrong. He couldn't resume stocking shelves without thinking to tear them down, pushing one into the other and then another, collapsing this façade of stability. He stood with his chest heaving and fists clenched, pacing himself as best he could, knowing he had no other choice. And by the time he finally left the stockroom, Jackson was bound to be long gone, rounding the block away from here.

Bucky was stoic. He finished his shift without taking another pause and left without a word to his boss or fellow co-workers. There was never much time between his first job of the day and his second, and he had a relatively short but tiring distance to travel between them. It was impossible not to be on edge, knowing what was to come that evening. He could only go off of routine, moving methodically and refusing to count down the hours or watch as the sky darkened. It was near impossible to focus on what he was doing and he had responded to remarks of disapproval with nothing more than a quiet apology and made no attempt to better himself afterward. He couldn't, no matter how much he may have wanted to.

And by the time he made it to the docks, following those familiar bright, probing lights amidst the dark, his nerves had numbed to the dangers awaiting him. They'd become an ingrained part of the plan; an expectation without surprises. Bucky knew without a doubt that Paul had not reconsidered and would have run his loud mouth plenty. These rumours that had been with Bucky for the longest time, that had taken so much false flirtation and forced interest in various women to dispel, had come back in full ferocity.

Bucky turned the corner and found the others huddled in an unkempt circle, cigarettes in hand, talking boisterously amongst themselves, actually smiling and seeming totally at ease. It defied Bucky's expectations and he slowed, cautious, but not yet hopeful. He approached timidly and didn't attempt to assert himself into the conversation, merely listening and observing carefully. At first, nobody seemed to notice him. Nobody turned or looked or greeted him either casually or cruelly. And, finally, Bucky dared relax just slightly.

It was possible he may make it through the night without incident. There was a chance they had no interest in repeating old abuses of the past; like it was a game they had since grown tired of playing. After all, they had hounded on Bucky for months, never letting up or giving in due to compassion or pity. There was only so much one could say until the words lost all meaning and couldn't cut healing scars. Bucky had heard it all and taken it in stride, telling himself it would do no good to fight back. Eventually, he didn't even hear it anymore. And then, slowly, it went away and died entirely.

A buzzer rang as a ship approached the docks to make port and everyone dumped their cigarettes and began bustling to do their jobs, losing themselves in the usual tasks. Bucky was easily able to fall into line, guiding and shifting the load, listening to the common banter he was all too used to hearing. The stale threat from Jackson sat idle in the back of his mind, not allowing him to join in or even find the playful taunts amusing the way he once had. It was best to keep his mouth shut for now, silently appreciative for their indifference. He flitted invisible amongst them, their eyes turning from one to the other and then the next and missing him in between.

The only one to look and truly see him was Jackson.

Jackson worked close by, edging his way closer and closer to Bucky all the time without saying anything, his eyes casting back and forth with uncertainty. As he neared, Bucky found reasons to move further away, forcing some distance between them. It was a massive undertaking to somehow evade him for a number of hours since there were only so many places he could go. It would have been far easier to let him speak but Bucky decided not to risk it. He didn't dare tempt fate, knowing full well that anything, even just something slight, could trigger a reaction. Still, Jackson seemed insistent, following Bucky wherever he went and eventually whispering for his attention.

"Not now," Bucky hissed, cautioning him.

Jackson opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the final buzzer ending their day. Immediately, the group grew rowdy again, stretching and retrieving their smokes from their back pockets, shouting to one another in search of matches. Bucky easily disappeared in the noise and lingered in the back of the group, punching out last and retrieving his coat.

"Hey, Barnes!"

Bucky paused and turned, only half assured that it was safe to do so. Harry, Paul, Wes, and Jackson were grouped together, their thumbs hooked into their own belt loops, watching him with some kind of intrigue. He smiled slyly, as he normally would, and shrugged on his coat but didn't bother with the buttons, opting not to use the time better spent getting away from here.

"What?" he asked.

"You look like hammered shit," Paul said around the cigarette between his teeth. He'd already smoked it down to the butt, the hot embers threatening to burn his lips with a few short puffs.

"Passed out on my bathroom floor," Bucky explained, "can't look any good after that."

The group chuckled and Paul finally dropped the cigarette, stamping it out with his foot. He ran his thumb over his lips and met Bucky's eye, his stare unshakeable. When he didn't laugh, the other three fell quiet and waited, almost with bated breath, to see what would follow. Watching them, Bucky knew they were waiting for cues. Jackson took a weighted step back and hung his head, both hands now tucked tightly into his pockets.

"It was a really long night, and a stupid effort on my part to try and keep up with you guys. I'll never understand how you can drink so much without feeling like you've been taken out with a sledgehammer." Bucky said casually. He had to make conversation. He had to settle any burgeoning doubts about his leanings.

"Well, you know how it is. Real men can take it," Paul said. His smile was too comfortable, too placid.

"Guess I'm still just a boy then, huh," Bucky tried to laugh.

"Little boy playing in the sand," Paul taunted.

"I barely remember it, but I have enough sand still in my hair to prove it, I suppose," Bucky said, voice rushed and dismissive. "I'm gonna get back, wash up, and hopefully sleep it off. You guys enjoy the rest of your night." He turned his back to them, perhaps a moment too soon, far too eager to get back to Steve and those tight four walls he now called home.

"Say hi to Steve for me," Paul called at his back, practically spitting Steve's name.

Bucky didn't stop. Instead, he waved back at them in farewell and walked out of the warehouse, back onto the dock. It was impossible not to hear them following, four sets of heavy feet landing together over wooden planks. Ahead of them, the rest of the small group were already in the distance, starting to disperse at the intersection. Bucky felt it would be safe there and quickened his pace under the streetlights.

By the time he got there, the group ahead of him were gone, broken up into gatherings of two on either side of the street and heading home. The four at his back had gone silent, probably falling behind and losing themselves in the trading of new cigarettes and mindless chatter. It was a safe bet, but the quiet made Bucky nervous. Instinctively, he strayed out from under the streetlights and faded into the bordering shadow, walking in the dark where he felt no one could see him.

But they could. They had never stopped watching.

As Bucky rounded the next corner, he found his path blocked by those he had thought were long gone, some having seemingly circled and gathered back here. Some in attendance hadn't even worked the shift that night, coming all the way to the docks on their night off to wait for them—to wait for Bucky. Paul and the others brought up the rear, closing off the exit route behind him.

Bucky sighed and lifted his head.

"You know I never carry matches, guys," he joked tiredly.

"Right. Because little Stevie doesn't like the smell of cigarette smoke," Paul said.

Bucky hesitated. "What's your point, Paul? I don't smoke anymore and that rubs you the wrong way?"

"Everything about you rubs me the wrong way, Barnes—,"

"I don't particularly like you either, but then, I have always been a pretty good judge of character," Bucky quipped bluntly.

He was trying to remain as calm and collected as possible, dowsing his anger just as quickly as it hit in heated waves. They had all turned on him. Every single one of them had listened to Paul and taken his word as gospel, allowing themselves to be manipulated by nothing more than unfair rumours. It didn't matter that Bucky had never been anything but kind to them, a friend despite their past accusations. It didn't matter that he had loaned money to Arthur when he needed it and never asked to be repaid, or that he had helped Bill finish the renovation on his house, or even when he had been a shoulder to cry on for John when his father passed. Nothing mattered in the face of his sexuality; of which they had no actual proof.

Bucky shook his head in disgust and tried to push past them but was quickly barricaded in, grabbed by the arms and forced back to the centre of the circle.

"Where are you off to in such a rush?" Paul asked, "Back to good ol Stevie? I have to ask, which of you faggots takes it and which of you gives?"

"Gee, Paul, you seem awful curious," Bucky grinned sourly, his glare cold. "Sure you aren't jealous?"

Paul stormed forward with his fists raised and Jackson grabbed at his elbow, urging him back a step just as the rest of the group tightened the circle, all incensed and swearing and spitting. Bucky was making it worse, egging them on and just daring them to fight. He couldn't help himself. These furious flames were far too big to put out. And he couldn't help but think, _'what would Steve Rogers do?'_ Steve was immune to cowardice. He was unafraid of bullies and never gave in to their cruelty, no matter how severe. And Bucky sometimes figured him stupid for it but nevertheless admired him for his unconquerable strength. There was no resolving this with gentle words and careful reasoning. Bucky couldn't simply talk his way out of this one. Standing down was no different to giving in and letting them win a fight that was much bigger than any one of them.

Shaking Jackson off, Paul finally threw a punch. Once it landed hard across Bucky's jaw, the rest of them wrestled forward and grabbed at him, hitting him wherever they could reach amidst the chaos. Bucky tried throwing them off, elbowing someone in what he thought was the nose and kicking someone else in the shins, even head-butting Paul squarely in his stupid face. But then he was buckled at the knees, knocked down so they all towered over him and had free reign to beat him senseless. Bucky, unwilling to cower, took it with clenched teeth and silently hoped not to break a rib. He could feel the heat of his own blood pouring from his nose and the sting of his busted lip, even the quick but unforgiving swelling of dark bruises all over.

Jackson shouted out for them to stop, threatening the arrival of cops just around the corner, which triggered a sudden withdrawal. The mass quickly disbanded, seemingly satisfied with their work just short of killing him. Bucky watched the stream of boots taking off in a run and disappearing into the distant dark, taking all the loud, hateful voices with them. Bucky turned on his side and spat blood, smearing it across his cheek with the back of his sleeve. This attack, though remarkably brief, had left him entirely winded and aching.

And he realised, with horror, that this must be how Steve always felt after being beaten.

"I told you. I fucking told you, Bucky," Jackson fumed and knelt down beside him, reaching out to help him up.

Bucky shrugged him off and gritted his teeth, hissing against the pain as he moved to his hands and knees. His body was shaking, thrown into shock by the battering, and his lower legs had gone partially numb—the kind of pins and needles brought on by fear. He knew he was safe now, which was both a sad and hilarious thought. He was safe and broken, and finally free to go home just like he wanted.

"I warned you about Paul. Now I don't know why I even bothered," Jackson ranted, trying, again, to help him.

Again, Bucky pushed him away. He crawled gracelessly to the nearest wall and felt along the brick for some kind of leverage, bracing himself against it and sliding shoulder first up its length until he was standing—still mostly hunched, but standing nonetheless. The effort was exhausting and he took a moment to breathe, touching timidly at his face and testing his open wounds. There was no telling how bad they were, but they stung something awful. Bucky withdrew his hand, somewhat made nauseous by the pain, and started to walk, still using the wall as a guide and as a crutch. Of course, this wall wouldn't continue on forever. It had to end sometime, and would sooner rather than later. And then Bucky would be at the mercy of his own shaking legs.

"You're a damn idiot," Jackson huffed, "if you won't ever listen to me, then at least let me help you get home."

"I'm fine on my own, thanks," Bucky tried to snarl, but the words came out sounding so weak and pitiable.

"Yeah, you really look it. I've never known a bag of bones not to be fine, after all."

Bucky urged his feet to move but they remained still. He knew, given time, they'd find feeling again, but that was time he didn't have to spare. He would much sooner collapse than walk and didn't think it wise to make himself a semi-permanent fixture of the sidewalk. Given the choice, he decided that accepting Jackson's help was the less shameful option.

Grudgingly, he reached out for Jackson and clutched desperately at the material of his sleeve, allowing himself to fall into his side. Jackson propped him up and put an arm around his waist, carrying most of his weight as they walked—Bucky stumbling—together.

"My car isn't much farther," Jackson assured him gently.

"Didn't know they gave out licenses to idiots," Bucky tried to joke.

Jackson laughed. "They don't. That's why you don't have one."

Bucky scoffed but didn't have a rebuttal; he was, after all, the one who walked into an unmatched fight despite being previously warned. It was the sort of idiocy he would have talked Steve out of—or rather tried to, probably without success.

Jackson took him around the next block and then a short, quiet street. There was one car left on the side of the road, badly parked with one wheel breaching the curb which suggested something truly concerning about Jackson's driving abilities. It was a battered thing, more busted metal than an actual car. Bucky supposed that it had a colour somewhere under all that filth, but he couldn't tell from afar which one it was. As they neared, he could see that masses of paint had actually come off, leaving impressive sections entirely bare. When they reached it, Jackson leaned Bucky against the side of his car, practically sitting him up on the hood. Bucky ran a finger along the hood and discovered the car was red underneath the dust.

Jackson cursed under his breath and patted hastily at his pockets for his keys.

"If you left them back at the docks, I'll actually murder you," Bucky threatened, his lips turning up at the corners in the briefest of smiles.

"I'm not worried. I can't exactly get killed by a dead man."

"Is it that bad?" Bucky winced and gestured to his bloody face.

"Well, it ain't good," Jackson attested and finally unlocked his car.

"You're a real charmer, you know that?" Bucky eased himself into the passenger seat. "I don't know what I did to get a ride home from such a gentleman." He smoothed down his wayward hair and chuckled lightly. On a better day, he may have even winked.

Jackson circled the car and got into the driver's seat. "It's no wonder you got yourself beaten half to death," he sighed, "you invite it with shit like that."

"Like what?"

"Nothing. Forget about it."

"No. Shit like what? What do I do that warrants something like this?"

Bucky looked over at him and saw Jackson's stony expression, his eyes fixated on the road. There was the suggestion of nervousness as Jackson's cheeks flushed a soft petal pink.

"You flirt. A lot. And not the joking kind, the real kind," Jackson stated finally.

"You think I'm flirting with you?" Bucky snorted. "Look, you really aren't my type. For one thing, you'd look just dreadful in a skirt, and—,"

"But you don't like skirts, do you? Or the women who wear them?" Jackson interrupted.

Bucky was quiet, too tired and defeated to attest otherwise. He wouldn't be believed even if he tried, that much was for certain. Nevermind the months of verbal abuse, Bucky had never been bashed up before. The rumours, no matter how persistent or violent in nature, had ever accumulated into something so vicious. These weren't crude words being spat at Bucky's back. This wasn't empty threats being snarled into his ear or cruel pranks set up to maim him. He was brutally attacked. And it wasn't something that would be forgotten with time unless he did something drastic. As things stood, this was irreversible and maybe even the start of something worse.

Perhaps next time they'd kill him.

"You don't have to lie to me, Bucky," Jackson assured him, "I don't… I don't see any point in hurting someone for it."

"You're the only one who seems to think so," Bucky mumbled. This was dangerous. His lack of denial confirmed the rumours, and if Jackson was at all partial to Paul and the others it was likely that he would share Bucky's confession.

"You know I'm not. There have been men in your life, haven't there? Men like you?"

Bucky shrugged faintly and fiddled nervously with the hem of his sleeve, picking at the blood now crusted in the fibres. "I guess," he admitted finally.

"Thought so," Jackson sighed and pressed down a little harder on the accelerator, driving a little faster towards Bucky and Steve's apartment. "I don't care what you are. I want you to know that."

"Thanks," Bucky said and turned his gaze out the window. They weren't far now. Pretty soon, Bucky could wash himself off, climb into bed, and try to forget the whole thing; at least for a time. He was sure to fret over this for a long while and wanted to get a few hours peaceful sleep in before he started.

The rest of the drive was silent. Jackson didn't try to pry any further into Bucky's affairs, didn't ask how long he'd known or for any names that might expose anyone else. And he didn't ask about Steve. But he was probably thinking it. How could he not? It was no secret that Bucky and Steve had been close for a very long time, and now, living together in such close quarters, it was bound to spark some curiosity.

Bucky could think of nothing other than, _'if only'_. All the speculation and no truth to it whatsoever; nothing but one-sided affection and years of heart-wrenching pining. Of all things to land him here, Steve was the most painful reason of all. It wasn't his nights spent in underground dens of iniquity, his body colliding naked and hot with another man's, it wasn't the blasphemous confessions of homoerotic passion in these illicit heated moments, or the times he had near suffered for being too reckless in a public setting. He hadn't escaped these reasons totally unscathed, but he hadn't left them with blood crusted in his nose and bruises marking his ribs either. Instead, he had been witnessed in a love-dazed sprawl in the sand with Steve, their lips unkissed and pants zipped, shirts mostly buttoned. And this was the punishment.

"We're not," Bucky said.

"What?" Jackson peered over at him.

"Steve and me. We're not."

"No?"

"No."

Jackson raised an eyebrow and considered it for a moment before going, "huh."

"Curiouser and curiouser, hm?" Bucky affirmed knowingly.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised. I really thought there was something going on between you two," Jackson conceded, "I suspected for a while, even before seeing you on the beach."

Bucky groaned and let his head fall back against the headrest. "That stupid beach. I wish we'd never gone to that god damn beach, after all the trouble it's caused."

"Well, I mean, I don't think the beach had much to—,"

"No. No. Steve was right, the ocean has a grudge against me and it's all playing out just as it wants," Bucky ranted, knowing it was all nonsense but desperate to blame something other than himself.

"Okay…" Jackson allowed cautiously, wisely choosing not to question him or argue further.

They pulled over outside the apartment building and Jackson removed the key from the ignition, ignoring Bucky's protests urging him to stay put. Jackson had gone enough out of his way as it was to help him. It was unfair to have him give up any more of his time. And… Bucky didn't want him to go up to the apartment. It was late so there was a fair chance Steve was already in bed, oblivious that anything was amiss, but if not, then he was bound to see the blood and bruises and take it out on the nearest possible suspect. Jackson, as far as Steve was concerned, was another of Bucky's colleagues who had bullied him unashamedly in the past. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that Jackson, like the others, had taken it a step further.

Were their situations reversed and it was Steve coming home battered and broken like this, then Bucky would be furious at the nearest participant too.

"You won't make it up six flights alone," Jackson told him starkly.

Bucky huffed but shut up, knowing he was right. He'd since reclaimed a sensation other than pins and needles in his legs, but he didn't trust them to carry him very far; maybe to the front door, or even the second floor if he really pushed himself, but no further. Like the sidewalk, he didn't wish to become a tenant of anywhere other than his own home.

Jackson eased him out of the car and resumed their position from before: Bucky's arm around his shoulders, and Jackson's arm around his waist. They took the stairs slowly, each one more frustrating and painful than the last, and Bucky began to appreciate how much effort this likely took Steve every day. This was worse than Steve's ailments, but it was the one time Bucky had experienced anything even resembling his daily physical stresses. It didn't make Bucky pity him, instead, it made him admire Steve even more. The absolute resilience of him.

Reaching the top of the last flight of stairs, Bucky retrieved his key and quietly urged Jackson to leave, promising him he could make it from here fine on his own. Apprehensive, Jackson paused and listened to the music playing inside the apartment and decided it was probably best he goes. Somehow, he also seemed to suspect Steve's oncoming wrath.

"Don't come to work tomorrow," Jackson advised.

"Doubt I could make it even if I wanted to," Bucky sighed and offered a small, appreciative smile.

"I did try to warn you," Jackson reminded him again.

"Yeah, you did," Bucky allowed. "And I'm sure you won't ever let me forget it."

"At least not in this lifetime," Jackson promised and patted him gently once on the back before taking his leave.

Bucky, now alone, hesitated before slotting his key into the lock and entering the apartment.

All the lights were on, leaving him no place to hide or any shadows to mask the extent of his injuries. Still, he kept his eyes trained on the floor at first, for some reason ashamed of himself. He felt the discomfort of knowing it wasn't his fault but blaming himself nevertheless. If he didn't feel the things he felt, or if he liked the people he pretended to like, then this never would have happened. He knew it was internalising, taking on other people's hatred and making it his own but… he couldn't help but think: _it would be so much easier if…_

He listened to the record playing the soft jazz that Steve had a penchant for. It was hilariously out of place; the easy caress of instruments playing in place of the sombre blues Bucky felt inside. Steve seemed to be lost to it too, looking so small with his legs folded beneath him on the couch, his sketchbook open on his lap and the smears of charcoal coating his worked fingers. Given the number of pages littering the floor, some even aggressively scrunched up or ripped, it was clear Steve had been sat there for hours. It wasn't often he wasted paper, unless upset enough to do so. His hair was still windswept from that morning, perhaps even further tussled by his own nervous fingers as suggested by the faint remnants of black dust worked into the roots. He peered up at Bucky, his bottom lip between his teeth, and gasped. Bucky couldn't stand to see the gentle blue of Steve's eyes becoming clouded with worry, so he looked away and dabbed hopelessly at the blood staining his upper lip.

"It's nothing," Bucky said quickly.

He heard the thud of Steve's sketchbook hitting the floor and the squeak of the couch as he got up. Turning away, Bucky moved toward the bathroom to wash his face. He had to do something about this. Whatever he could. Bucky hadn't even seen the damage for himself yet, but his imagination had come up with some pretty gruesome ideas. It wasn't something he wished for Steve to see.

"This is a very small apartment, Buck. You can't evade me forever, so you may as well face me now and get it over with," Steve reasoned.

Steve caught Bucky's arm and stilled him, tangling his fingers into the material of his coat in a quiet desperation. He pulled at the hem, forcing his fingers further up inside his sleeve, feeling for the skin of Bucky's wrist. His touch was delicate, but something about it made Bucky want to cry—something he hadn't actually allowed himself to do despite the torment of it all.

"I, uh, I fell," Bucky mumbled lamely.

"You fell?" Steve repeated faintly in complete disbelief.

"Yes. Into some heavy cargo and then, uh, the impact of my body falling between the crates knocked the top layer down onto me which completely threw the balance off and it all collapsed overboard into the ocean. I think a bit of debris hit me on the way down, but that part is a bit of a blur, you know, because of the water, you see… and—,"

"Bucky. You aren't wet," Steve touched his chin gently.

"I dry really fast," Bucky said and gestured to the blood caking him, "and this is nothing. It didn't wash off but its fine."

"Who did this to you?" Steve asked sternly. He tugged on Bucky's sleeve and guided him, somewhat forcefully, to the couch.

Bucky was too tired to argue so he sunk down onto it, aware that he may never find it within himself to stand up again. It was too soft—protruding springs and stuffing be damned—and so very safe. It belonged to Steve and had for many years. Bucky had grown up with this couch. He'd slept it on it many a time and had spent countless afternoons sat cross-legged facing Steve with a board game or deck of cards between them—Steve often too ill to play outside with everyone else. They had traded Birthday and Christmas presents sitting on this couch, bodies nestled under the same warm blanket in the winter months. Of the few things Steve had moved here with them, Bucky was relieved this couch had made it. He traced the worn seams of the cushion cover with his fingers and smiled tenderly.

"Do you remember the first time I saw you sick? I mean, _really_ sick?" Bucky asked.

"What? No? Bucky, what—," Steve was perplexed and still trying to see the extent of Bucky's injuries, moving his face this way and that with his hand. It probably didn't matter which way he turned, his face looked atrocious from every angle.

"You didn't come to school for two days and on the second day I skipped out during lunchtime, knowing the teacher would write to my mother and I'd be in, not the worst trouble of my life, but close to it. But I had to know," Bucky went on, "I was so worried, Steve. I noticed you falling ill a couple days before and you kept telling me you were fine. So god damn stubborn about it."

"Bucky. Please," Steve urged him but finally sat down.

"So I get to your place, completely out of breath because of course I ran the whole way, and I begged Sarah to let me in to see you. She really wasn't sure—just so protective of you. But eventually, she relented and opened the door. And I rounded the corner and there you were on _this_ couch. You looked smaller than I had ever seen you. And so pale. But not white like paper or snow… you were this kind of… grey," Bucky told him, looking at him closely.

"And then what?" Steve sighed, grudgingly yielding, but listening earnestly.

"I wanted to cry. I think I felt ridiculous at the time and I blinked back the tears, but now… now I don't find it ridiculous at all. You were so frail and your skin was cold to the touch but you were drenched in sweat. I didn't know what was wrong with you, and I couldn't even imagine how it felt. But I was scared. I _knew_ to be scared."

Steve nodded. "I remember. I looked at you and smiled."

Bucky laughed softly. "Yeah, you smiled. A really dumb little smile and then you said—,"

"I should always be this handsome," Steve finished for him and snorted, " _Dumb_ was right."

"Well that part hasn't changed," Bucky joked fondly. He thought for a moment and then his voice softened. "Do you remember asking me to stay?"

"Of course."

"Sarah waited until school finished and then called my mum, asked if I could stay for dinner. And I got you to eat some soup; the first time you had eaten in two days—,"

"I had to. You threatened to force feed me otherwise," Steve reminded him pointedly.

"At least it worked," Bucky said. "I sat on one side of the couch with your legs over my lap and we just talked for ages. You didn't say much, but that was okay. It was enough just to see you smiling, and I swear some colour came back into your face. You even finished your soup."

"Bucky?" Steve turned to face him properly, his gaze desperate and probing. "Why are you saying all this?"

Bucky shrugged vaguely. "I love this couch," he explained.

Steve nodded in understanding and placed his hand gratefully on the armrest, feeling the texture of the fabric with his thumb. "Yeah. It has lived a life, hasn't it?"

Bucky was relieved Steve understood. Contented that Steve remembered and treasured these memories just as much as he did. This was just another; a sad memory full of terrors and uncertainty, solaced by a happy one. It was him and Steve, come whatever.

"We can't get rid of it. Even when it becomes more springs than cushion, we have to keep it, okay?"

"Okay," Steve promised.

Bucky leaned back and sunk down further in place, resting his head against the backrest and closing his eyes, satisfied with Steve's vow. Of all the world's tiny, encased places, this was the only one Bucky didn't have to endure but instead relished. This small spot on the couch next to Steve.

"You looked after me a lot back then," Steve said, "hell, you still look after me now. Can I please look after _you_ for a change?"

"I guess I haven't got a choice but to let you. You'll force it on me otherwise," Bucky retorted playfully and grinned so wide his busted lip stung and he winced against the pain.

"You have to tell me what happened and who did this to you," Steve called, already up and disappearing into the bathroom.

Bucky hummed in a hollow response, listening to the sounds of Steve in the next room. He wasn't going to tell him. He couldn't. Bucky couldn't bring himself to admit the vile truth of the matter—about their savagery and why they committed such violence against him. He didn't want to confess his failure. To describe how he had ultimately laid down and died. It was too humiliating to tell him that Paul had seen Bucky's true affections and had used that as reason to beat him senseless. Bucky had always protected Steve, fought fights for him to keep him safe, and it was distressing to think he may one day fail to do that.

Bucky couldn't bear to see Steve's trust and faith in him shatter. It was horrid enough even imagining it waver.

As Steve resumed his seat and tended to Bucky's wounds—much the same way Bucky had tended to Steve's only a few weeks prior—Bucky ran his fingers back and forth along that same couch seam, over and over and over again until the pattern was fixed in his memory. He would remember it exactly, no matter where he was and what he was doing, and he would feel safe.

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck?" Steve soothed.

"Don't come back to the docks again," Bucky pleaded. "Please. No matter what."

Steve hesitated, his hand pausing with the wet cloth still pressed to Bucky's skin. His lips were barely parted, the despairing need to implore further on the very tip of his tongue. He was there, trying so hard not to argue, wanting more than anything to get answers that could maybe explain away some of his biggest fears. Searching for a reason which promised nothing was as terrible as it seemed.

But Bucky couldn't bring himself to lie. He could only withhold the truth and pray that it was enough.

Steve closed his mouth and nodded solemnly, chest tight in a withheld breath. He never gave in to anyone other than Bucky, never stood down from a fight he truly believed in unless Bucky asked. He could see now that Bucky needed him—needed him more than anything—and so he let the fight go. Steve surrendered his questions and accepted that he may never know what really happened.

Bucky looked away. He dipped his head down and his hair—now at the verge of overgrown—fell into his face, masking the guilt in his eyes.

"Okay," Steve promised finally.

They had made so many promises to each other on this couch, each one infinite within the moments it had captured. As Bucky ran his fingers along that memorised seam one more time, he felt them recited back to him.

Each one kept, never to be broken.


	4. Perfectly Imperfect Daisy (Steve's POV)

Steve hated Daisy.

No, hate was far too strong a word and Daisy had done absolutely nothing to warrant it. Steve just resented her was all. He couldn't help it despite her perfectly loveable personality and bubbly nature. She was so absurdly friendly without even trying, always giving out compliments that didn't even sound forced, the absolute ease of them passing her full, pink lips and making the whole world smile.

She was funny too; sickeningly so.

It was enough to make Steve purely envious. Especially since her jokes had a way of making him laugh, too, despite himself. Her witty stories flowed so smoothly as if she'd had time to sit, ponder, and write them down, effortlessly reciting them time and time again without ever becoming a bore to listen to. She'd lived an exciting life and got up to all sorts of harmless fun, somehow evading consequence and regret without effort.

To make matters worse, she was also incredibly smart. Tremendously well-read and thoughtful, able to think fast on her feet and thoroughly discuss profound subjects. She could quote literature and write poetry and wished to travel and broaden her horizons. Steve knew she would keep her word and one day see the world. Daisy was the sort to get what she wanted, the sort that achieved without having to try very hard. She was a well-rounded person and gloriously humble about it, presenting herself void of any arrogance or narcissism, content in her own skin without feeling the need or desire to contend with others.

There was nothing to hate about her, though Steve had tried—and felt absolutely ashamed for it.

He could see what Bucky saw in her and had no trouble understanding how they'd met and fallen into a relationship so quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Steve still didn't actually know where and how they met. He had heard conflicting stories. Bucky claimed they had met outside the movie theatre waiting in line to purchase their tickets, which made no sense since he never went without inviting Steve and couldn't recall the film he'd seen. Daisy, meanwhile, said she met him at the restaurant where he worked, spilling her drink down his front when they bumped into each other—another dubious story since Bucky had never come home with a such a distinct stain on his shirt.

Steve assumed they were embarrassed by the truth. Bucky had never been the sort to gush and share explicit details about a girl, particularly since it wasn't the most chivalrous thing to have relations so quickly. He was probably protecting Daisy's pride and reputation, at the very least suggesting they hadn't had sex _immediately_ upon meeting. She had so many friends and a prosperous lifestyle, so no good could possibly come from being tarnished by a sudden hot and heavy relationship—with someone without wealth or status like Bucky no less. Steve could only theorise. He could only infer from their conflicting stories and awkward demeanours whenever the subject came up. It wasn't fair for him to judge so he had let the conversation slide, burdening himself with more questions.

Ultimately, it didn't matter, anyhow.

However they met, they had become inseparable since.

Daisy was always around. No matter where they went or what they were doing, she was bound to tag along and take up all of Bucky's attention. They would walk and sit and stand together, arms linked or hands held, bodies near close enough to conjoin. And they would talk and laugh and embrace where everyone could see them, totally carefree and unapologetic. It had become unbearable to the point that Steve had started inventing excuses to stay behind, usually claiming illnesses when they didn't exist—which was one of his more believable reasons, given his ailments. Otherwise, he ran frequent errands, going to the store when they weren't actually in need of anything, purposely taking his time to return. He just needed to get out of the house, away from what he assumed would be the worst of their canoodling. Since they took no issue with public displays of affection, Steve could only imagine what they would get up to with four walls obscuring them from prying eyes.

To avoid any incidents, Steve had hung a sheet between his and Bucky's beds, creating a curtain of sorts to give each of them something that, at the very least, resembled some privacy. So far he hadn't heard any evidence to support their need for it, but it was called a precaution for a reason. He didn't dare take it down, not wanting to risk it. He didn't want to see anything he wasn't supposed to and didn't think he could bear it if he did.

Somehow, not for the first time, seeing Bucky this happy made Steve the deepest kind of sad.

But he couldn't always make himself look away.

Steve got up and shook off his towel, setting it down again more under the cover of the umbrella as the sun moved. He slumped back down, his pitiful posture hunched over his drawn up knees. Draping his arms over either knee, he dusted the sand off of his shins, scrunching up his nose at the grainy texture beneath his fingers.

He had never liked the beach. Between the ocean that threatened to swallow him whole, the heat boring into his too-pale skin, and the sand that liked to settle itself in every unfortunate crevice, there wasn't a whole lot to like about it. He didn't take well to it, nor it to him, but it suited Bucky just fine. Daisy too. They were able to frolic carelessly across the shore and absorb the benefits of sunlight, tanning their already glowing skin. Daisy's hair—shorter than most women's—looked beautiful both when wet and windswept, never seeming out of place or unmanageable. Bucky could smoothly run his fingers through those blonde locks and sensually tuck any loose strands behind her ear, clearly gracing the skin of her neck as he did so. And she could lean up on her tiptoes and brush away the sand dusting Bucky's lips, tracing the shape of them as she did.

Steve watched them and rolled his eyes, muttering sourly under his breath. He didn't want to be here, but his various excuses had been dismissed this time. The declaration of his oncoming cold was met with nothing more than a dismissive groan and the curt pursing of Bucky's lips, his eyes dull with disapproval. There hadn't been room to argue; Bucky was taking Steve to the beach and Daisy was going to be there.

He and Daisy never actually fought, but in the effort to keep himself from becoming unfairly argumentative Steve tended to make himself overly quiet. Daisy always tried so hard to appeal to him and make conversation without much luck, Steve usually humming or shrugging in response unless she had time to wear him down and draw him in. She did well to hide her hurt feelings, but Steve could see through it. Just as he could see Bucky's quiet desperation to make things work.

Steve knew he made them all feel uncomfortable.

He never wished to be alone with her and often looked for ways to avoid it, which was usually difficult since she seemed to try just as hard to get close to him. Today was an exception since Bucky's sisters had met them there so they were able to act as a buffer of sorts.

When Steve wasn't staring—gawking, really—at Bucky and Daisy, he was watching the three of them, making sure the younger two didn't drown though they were beyond old enough to swim in the shallows without supervision. The eldest of them, Shirley, was laid down beside Steve with her back to the sun, her chin rested daintily on the back of her hand as she read the book perched open in front of her. She was there, not to keep Steve company, but out of grudging necessity. She had been told—just as the others had been as well—that she was to stay with the group. It was no secret that she was desperate to be elsewhere as she periodically sighed and pointedly turned the page of her book, pausing now and then to check her progress by judging the thickness of her collected pages.

At first, Steve was mostly relieved to have her there despite her remoteness. Perhaps she made for poor company, but it gave Steve a well-needed distraction. Someone to talk to. Someone to focus on. Or at least that's what he had hoped when she first settled down beside him. He might have even asked what the book was about or her current review of it, but she met every interruption with a terse nod or a disgruntled snort. She was not at all open to conversation, no matter how mundane the subject such as the weather that they both could tell for themselves was humid. After a few attempts, Steve had stopped trying. Shirley had never liked Steve, but, then, she never seemed to like anyone, so he didn't take it personally the way he might have done with anyone else.

The other two sisters, Charlotte and Anna, were kneeling together where the water reached the shore, gathering wet sand into a mass and building a sandcastle—or at least the most lenient description of one. Steve didn't have the heart to tell them that the incoming tide was bound to wash away their work before they could finish. Instead, he just watched as they contended with the ocean already lapping at one side, collapsing a wall. They seemed to like the challenge anyhow, Steve thought, checking again on their status and ensuring the group was still in one piece. He was making more of an effort than Bucky at least who had only noticeably looked once, peering briefly into the distance at Steve and raising his hand in an almost wave before lowering it and turning back to Daisy.

Steve had no reason to be here and should have left long ago, but something kept him in place. Bucky had asked him to come and so he stayed. It was that ridiculously simple and he felt like a complete fool for it. He hadn't put his foot down and had no one to blame other than himself. He couldn't even make the most of it and enjoy the day out with his friends, and Daisy. He could only sit alone—or with Shirley, which was no different to being alone—and pout like a kicked puppy.

It was Bucky who had been kicked, that much was clear—the state of his torso was enough to prove it. The bruises had mostly faded over the past couple weeks but had been severe enough to still linger this long—pale and yellow across his ribs. Steve couldn't make them out from here, but he'd seen them earlier when Bucky first took off his shirt and could still remember them exactly. Something truly awful had happened to him and yet he refused to talk about it. Steve had resisted every urge to ask questions since Bucky first came home beaten and bloody, but he had half expected him to open up to him about it on his own accord anyway. He thought it might take a little time but that Bucky would come around eventually.

After all, Bucky always did.

Instead, a little over two weeks had passed and Bucky was behaving as if nothing had ever happened. He never addressed it, never took notice of the state of his abused body, and never told Steve why he could never come to the docks again.

It was safe to assume that someone Bucky worked with had done this and it wasn't hard to put two and two together and figure that the rumours from last year may have had something to do with it. But then it raised the question: _why now?_ Why start a fight with Bucky now when the gossip had only just started to die down? Steve had no theories, nor did he have any solid answers. All he had was the image of Bucky standing in their living room, his face coated in blood, half bent over and cradling his sides with an intense shame burning in his eyes. Steve had seen the extent of it for himself, washing Bucky off in the shower, caressing his black and blue skin with trembling fingers. It was no ordinary tussle that had done that. It was vicious… hateful… without restraint.

And a part of Steve hated Bucky for keeping the truth from him. But really he was angry at the situation and at the fact that there was nothing he could do to help or to make it go away. Steve couldn't undo the damage or prevent Bucky's trauma. He was good at hiding it, but Steve knew it was there, lurking deep within. He knew Bucky better than anyone and wasn't so easily fooled by his act of bravado.

Whatever had happened to Bucky, and whatever had spurned it on, had left him traumatised.

Steve wondered if Daisy knew. After all, she would have seen Bucky's wounded face upon meeting him, the cut on the bridge of his nose scabbed, his left eye ugly and swollen, cheekbone blackened, and lips crusted. She must have asked questions. Nobody in her position could see these things and dismiss them without concern or curiosity. No girl worth anything could touch and love Bucky and not wonder where these marks had come from or who had put them there. Given her compassion, Steve assumed she would have asked, maybe even shoved where Steve wouldn't so much as push… but he didn't know if Bucky would have answered.

Despite his sickening anxiety over the whole thing, Steve refused to go to her with his questions. He was unwilling to go behind Bucky's back and didn't want to owe her anything. He was afraid, almost, that maybe she knew and would keep it from him—the two of them with their own secrets. They weren't supposed to have secrets or promises. Bucky hardly knew her… which didn't seem like a problem for him as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, sweeping her off her feet with ease and swinging her around as she squealed in delight.

They practically danced together, their movements the sort of perfect that Steve imagined when trying to define romance. Bucky was undeniably handsome with a dazzling smile and a mysterious glint to his eye. The bad-boy vibe surrounded him like an enticing aroma you couldn't help but give into. He charmed without effort. Captivated anyone who so much as looked at him—even Steve wasn't immune to this. Bucky could have anyone he wanted, nobody was off limits to him, but he had chosen Daisy.

Daisy was a certain kind of beautiful—not the typical kind like Dolores. She had a rounder face and a cute crooked tooth, her smile the sort that lifted the apples of her cheeks under her eyes and made them squinted. She was rather short—almost exact to Steve's height which evoked some embarrassment on his part—and had to lean up as Bucky leaned down in order to kiss him. She wasn't at all leggy in her swimsuit. Her blonde hair was a similar shade to Steve's, but perhaps a touch darker, and cut short in a way that remarkably suited her where it would probably look masculine on anyone else. She was the sort that was pretty because she didn't try to be. Steve knew, watching her face light up as Bucky set her down, that she felt especially pretty today because Bucky had said she was. He would have called her beautiful in a hushed tone, his voice so soft and sincere that it was impossible not to feel special.

Steve was trying to be happy for them, he truly was. He had tried hating her and couldn't pull it off. He had tried avoiding her and then given in the moment Bucky asked. All that was left was to try swallowing his frustration and accept it.

Somehow, he didn't think he would pull that off, either.

He was especially incapable of accepting _this_.

This was _their_ beach; Steve and Bucky's. It had unofficially become theirs the moment they stumbled across its shore, Steve warm with liquor and Bucky completely drowned in it, their legs unsteady, hearts racing, and heads spinning. This sand was theirs when they had shed their coats and dropped them with reckless abandon, leaving them to gather grains of sand like lint. It became theirs when they kicked off their shoes and felt it thick between their toes, footprints left in their wake. The sea was theirs when they rolled into its gentle waves, soaking Bucky's clothes and dripping from his hair, Steve's hands tangled into the wet contours of his shirt, fingers nervous and thrilled undoing the buttons. They had been the sole occupants of this entire stretch of beach, their drunken voices carrying into the open air for what felt like miles and miles as they laid together and talked.

All of that seemed forgotten now. An all too distant memory with hazy edges not worth remembering. Bucky had taken his new girl here and made a moment with her, creating a memory with all his undivided care and attention. He was piecing it together, drawing its lines in solid black ink never to be erased. And, god be damned, Steve was bound to remember it too in exact, unforgiving detail.

Bucky and Daisy ran up the beach together and arrived in front of them out of breath and giddy. They brought a piece of the ocean with them, their swimsuits wet and hair dripping, much to Shirley's displeasure as she recoiled. Bucky quickly sat down in front of Steve and blocked out more of the sun, entirely unconcerned about his bronzed shoulders which were surely hot to the touch by now. Steve leaned back on his elbows, trying to feign a sense of ease, but was sure he looked even more uncomfortable—all knobbly knees and pointy elbows and not much else. Bucky nudged Steve's foot playfully, knowing full well he was ticklish and smiled when he startled and withdrew.

"You know I hate that," Steve accused lightly and flicked sand at him with a hidden smile.

Secretly, he was pleased. He liked the attention, no matter how annoying it may be. By now he had become absolutely starved of it. Even still, he instinctively put his feet down flat so Bucky couldn't touch the soles of them. It wasn't a question of whether he would try and tickle him again, it was a question of when. The last thing Steve needed was to reward Bucky's attention by accidentally flailing and kicking him squarely in the face—enough damage had been done to it already.

"I can't help it. It's amusing to see that wild look in your eye," Bucky said in self-defence and shook out his hair like a dog.

"Ugh, will you stop? My book is all wet now," Shirley complained and sat up angrily.

Bucky grinned—a real shit-eating grin—and shook his hair again just to annoy her. Shirley swatted his arm with her book, losing her page, and muttered something bitter under her breath. Bucky pretended to quiver in fear and then laughed boisterously and received another two hits for his troubles, this time around the head. Rubbing sorely at the inflicted area, Bucky finally gave in and apologised, though insincerely, and made a show of begging for her forgiveness. Shirley, perhaps the one person on Earth who didn't yearn for Bucky's attention, took his apology with a grain of salt and turned her nose up at him.

"You just love creating chaos, don't you?" Daisy asked fondly and kissed Bucky's cheek. She then sidled in closer to Steve, gesturing for him to make room so they could share the shade of the umbrella together. Grudgingly, Steve scooted over and allowed her to sit close beside him, her wet skin dampening his previously dry arm and leg.

"No. I'm just in the habit of being in it is all," Bucky said and winked expressly at Steve.

Steve poked his tongue out at him in mock retaliation but couldn't rightfully argue. After all, he was more often than not the one to sniff out trouble first. And then that trouble was quick to turn into absolute chaos. It wasn't always so bad. They'd found some of their best adventures this way and have had an exciting life thus far because of it. That being said, there was a considerable number of decisions that Steve, with the wonderful and torturous gift of retrospection, wouldn't have made. Bucky didn't often complain though, unless of course, the chaos involved Steve getting hurt—which was, admittedly, an outrageously common occurrence.

Daisy didn't know any of this yet. Steve was still a mystery to her. A scrawny, timid absurdity that, somehow, was so intrinsically a part of Bucky's life.

"You should come into the water, Steve. It's absolutely beautiful today," Daisy gushed, unprovoked.

"Maybe later," Steve mumbled. It was a false consideration. He was not at all interested in actually following through. He never wanted to go into the water but felt even less inclined to do so now that she had invited him.

"Steve isn't a fan of the beach," Bucky explained, picking up on Steve's disgruntled tone.

What he didn't seem to understand was that Steve had made an exception for _this_ beach. He'd decided that while he had plenty of reservations about the seemingly endless expanse of water whose depths knew no bounds, he had found an undeniable fondness for it when shared _with him_. But now? Now it meant next to nothing. It was just another place, another somewhere… another anywhere or nowhere at all. As far as Bucky was concerned, nothing had been robbed from them by bringing Daisy here. It didn't make a difference.

"People urinate in the water," Steve remarked pointedly with a knowing glint in his eye. He raised his eyebrow daringly at Bucky, challenging him, practically begging for him to bite. Instead, Bucky only laughed and shrugged his shoulders in calm admission.

"I don't know anyone who hasn't," Daisy giggled.

"That's disgusting." Shirley wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"You're swimming in masses of pee and inhaling it through your nose. Swallowing it. Tasting it," Steve went on, now targeting Daisy instead.

"That's just being needlessly paranoid," Daisy said without hesitance, "swimming in the ocean is no more adverse to you than bathing."

"I beg to differ," Steve muttered and brought his knees even tighter into his chest.

He was desperate to go home now. They had been there for hours and he was afraid they'd still be there for countless more if they stayed even a minute longer.

The umbrella suddenly rattled in the breeze and threatened to fly away as a heavy gust caught underneath it and tugged the peg partially free from the sand. Both Steve and Daisy reached for it at the same time and solidified it together, their hands landing one over the other in their quick efforts to stop it. Steve withdrew his hand quickly, tugging it from underneath hers as if he had been burned. Seeing the cut look on his face, Daisy became quiet and looked down, pinching her lip between her teeth.

"You know mother is going to be absolutely beside herself with worry when I tell her about your ugly face, Bucky," Shirley said, thankfully interrupting the tense moment without even realising.

"Well, in that case, you aren't going to tell her. Are you?" Bucky said emphatically. "You can make fun of my _"ugly face"_ all you like, but you aren't going to say a word about it to her. Or to father for that matter."

"Why should I keep my mouth shut?" Shirley asked sharply.

"Because you don't want to scare them? Because you are a good, doting daughter and a considerate sister who loves her brother very much and doesn't want to get him in trouble?"

Shirley grinned smugly and crossed her arms, her book well and truly forgotten by now. She patiently tilted her head to one side and blinked with a sense of faux innocence, testing Bucky to see how far he was willing to go to keep his secrets.

Bucky sighed. "Because I will give you a dollar a month to keep quiet."

"Two dollars," she bargained.

Bucky guffawed at the notion. "Nice try, but not a chance. A dollar a month is beyond reasonable and, in fact, means I'd already be letting you rob me blind."

Shirley again rolled her eyes—something she was well practiced at—and agreed with an affirmative nod of her head. "Fine. I won't tell them. But the second you fail to make your payments, I will shout it from the rooftops and they'll be all the more mad because you kept it from them."

Daisy was watching and listening, amused to the common squabbling between siblings that neither she nor Steve had any personal experience with. They were both the only child in their families, but, as Steve understood it, he had always had a close relationship with his mother whilst Daisy had gone by mostly ignored by her feuding parents. She wasn't afraid to share, telling stories of her childhood with a trusting sincerity. Steve wanted to admire her, but his resentment prevented it.

"What happened to you anyway?" Shirley asked.

"None of your business, Shirl," Bucky dismissed her with a flippant wave of his hand. He looked into the distance and saw that Charlotte and Anna had given up on their sandcastle and were now instead building a dam or a pond… or some other giant hole in the sand to fill with the rising tide.

"But you're a considerate brother who loves his sister very much," Shirley countered.

"Hmm, not that much," Bucky deflected.

"But I want to know. Who did this to you?"

"Yeah, Bucky, who did this to you?" Steve repeated, somewhat sourly.

Bucky's head quickly turned, suddenly brought to attention by Steve's tone. Their eyes met, Steve's menaced and Bucky's startled—perhaps even a little hurt. Neither of them said anything. Steve didn't ask again and Bucky didn't answer. He was watching Steve, gaze longing and desolate, before he swallowed hard and stood up, tensely dusting himself off.

"I'll get Charlotte and Anna and then we can go," Bucky said quietly, "I can see that their skin's red from here."

Steve opened his mouth to apologise, but Bucky had already turned away and begun walking solemnly toward his sisters. Ashamed, Steve hung his head and closed his eyes, sure that, despite staying in the shade, he had gotten heatstroke. He felt sick—not at all an unfamiliar feeling—and yet so unlike himself, so lost amidst his frustration and… he supposed it was jealousy. He couldn't deny that any longer. He was jealous of seeing Bucky so happy with a girl so perfectly imperfect like Daisy.

"I don't know either, Steve," Daisy whispered, quiet enough that Shirley wouldn't overhear.

"What?" Steve blinked.

"I don't know what happened to Bucky," she explained, "or rather _who_ happened to him. We're very open and honest with one another about most things. About _everything_ , really, but not that. I've asked and asked until I was blue in the face, but he won't tell me."

Steve frowned and watched Bucky as he, probably giving in to the pleas of his sisters, got into the hole they had dug and splashed them with the water pooled around him. He was laughing again, smiling that easy smile and freeing himself from all things difficult. If it weren't for the bruises Steve still pictured on his skin, it would almost be as if nothing had ever been wrong.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because… I know you don't… like me very much."

Daisy was gentle. Unfairly so. All it did was highlight just how cold Steve had been toward her.

"That's not—,"

"It's very true," Daisy interjected and then smiled sweetly. "And it's okay. Really."

Steve gnawed on his lip and began fiddling with the sand, drawing patterns and shapes in it with his finger. It was all he had in place of paper and lead which was his usual reprieve from his stresses. He could feel her watching him, unperturbed by his distracted and uncomfortable behaviour. She was being kind. Considerate. Far too forgiving. It was everything he hated liking about her.

"I'm not the threat you think I am," Daisy concluded finally.

Before Steve could ask for any kind of elaboration, Daisy stood up and stepped forward into Bucky's arms. Steve hadn't seen him returning since he was so focused on the sand. He brushed his hand over the drawings and erased his nervous work. His chest still felt tight from the confrontation. As if Daisy had dug her claws into his lungs and squeezed. But, peering at her hands, Steve only saw harmless, bitten-down nails.

She wasn't confronting him at all. Steve just had reason to feel confronted.

Bucky called back over his shoulder at Charlotte and Anna, who weren't too far behind, to hurry up. They were clearly disappointed to be going home, never having accomplished the sandcastle of their dreams. Catching up with them, Anna, the youngest of the Barnes' children, complained urgently to Steve, knowing he would listen. He nodded his head sympathetically and hugged her into his side. Charlotte, meanwhile, had taken Bucky's hand and was pulling on it, begging to stay another hour.

"Look at you two. Your noses are red like a tomato," Bucky sighed, "mother's going to kill me for letting you sit in the sun for so long."

"No, she won't!" Charlotte insisted.

"Just a little longer?" Anna cried, still clinging onto Steve.

They were both, as Bucky said, red in the face. The burning hue in their skin glistened shiny and bordering on sore. They were sure to feel the extent of it soon, along with the regret of bathing in the sun for too long. Charlotte, her long chestnut hair wet and tangled in stringy tendrils, had somehow fared worse than her younger sister; the sand dusting her shoulders a distinct contrast to the colour of her skin—flecks of white clear against bright red. Seeing her, Steve felt inclined to collect his towel and wrap it around her, struggling to bend with Anna's arms clung onto him so tightly. Taking it as a cue to their leaving, Anna whined, pointing earnestly at their unfinished work and loudly protested once more.

Disgruntled, Bucky sighed and let his head drop back, turning his face to the sky and closing his eyes in a tired effort to collect himself. They were sure to be hearing more of this the entire way home. Particularly since Bucky had moved and only visited his family on occasion. His mother, as Shirley had described, was irate with him for leaving when he did, despite being of a fair age. Steve still, even after all this time, was honestly intimidated by Bucky's mother. She was a severe woman. Not unkind, but stern and greatly matter-of-fact. A strict kind of maternal—so unlike Steve's own mother Sarah—with nothing other than the best of intentions but tougher means of parenting. There was an indisputable right and wrong way to do things and Bucky's ingrained unruliness had worn her ragged over the years. She was often beside herself, expecting certain things of him that he tried so hard to fulfil, and his efforts had formed a dependency on him. Bucky was the first child, the only son, the big brother, and sometimes the sole provider of the household. His absence left a void in the Barnes house, one his mother greatly despised, and his sisters—bar Shirley—upset themselves over.

Knowing this and reading the exhaustion in Bucky's demeanour, Steve opened his mouth to try and reason with the two girls when he was interrupted.

"How about ice cream instead? My treat," Daisy suggested.

Her idea was immediately popular as the girls quickly accepted and flocked to her, abandoning both Steve and Bucky in their immense joy. Daisy smiled and took one hand in each of hers, walking with them back toward a stall selling ice cream, listening blissfully all the while as they chattered. They had taken to her so quickly, liking her the moment they met. Buying them ice cream only solidified their bond.

Bucky dusted off his hands and sighed in relief, glad not to be the mediator for once like he had been his whole life as the eldest. He had someone to take control, someone to help carry the burden of responsibility. Someone who made it possible to take a breath of fresh air once in a while.

Someone who could do that far better than Steve.

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and peered at Steve. "Want some ice cream?"

Steve shrugged. "I suppose. If you're having some."

Shirley gathered up their bags and her book and walked ahead, leaving them behind without caring to wait. Steve closed the umbrella and hefted it under his arm whilst Bucky waited with his hands on his hips, patient as he watched Shirley distance herself. They were finally alone. Ever since Daisy first came into the picture, moments like these had become a bit of a rarity and it seemed they both knew it. Bucky's lips turned up at the corners guiltily and he touched Steve's arm kindly, taking him briefly by the bicep and then allowing his hand to drift down to Steve's palm. His fingers lingered there.

"Hey," Bucky said gently.

Steve took two tentative steps forward and his toes found Bucky's in the sand. There he stayed. His chest suddenly felt a lot lighter.

"Hey," he said back.

"I'm sorry. I know you didn't really want to come today. I just… I—" Bucky stopped and frowned, searching for the right words before continuing. "I missed you, I think."

"I've been right here," Steve pointed out. But he understood. He knew all too well.

Steve had missed Bucky, too.

"I know," Bucky said, seemingly angry at himself.

"It's fine," Steve lied. "Daisy is… she's a nice girl. She really likes you."

Bucky chuckled somewhat darkly to himself, laughing at some inside joke Steve didn't understand. He squinted against the sun to try and spot Daisy and his sisters waiting in line at the stall. They were easy to lose in the crowd, given their small statures, but Shirley's height and length of dark hair pointed to their general whereabouts. By the way Bucky stepped back, it was clear he wasn't in any rush to join them.

"Yeah, she is," Bucky agreed eventually, "and she seems to. Like me, I mean. For some insane reason."

"It's not so insane," Steve disagreed.

"What? Because there's so much to like?" Bucky scoffed.

Steve was immediately worried. "Aren't you happy?"

"Of course I am," Bucky said. He ran his hand down over his face and took a breath before smiling. "Just surprised by my own luck. I hardly deserve her."

Steve might have argued that it was the other way round, but Daisy was so remarkably put together. She knew what true stability looked like and how it felt. Her family was well-off and she wanted for nothing, never needing to concern herself with the qualms of money or the lack thereof. She was educated, in good health, set to travel within the next year, and adored by many. Her parents were perhaps her only contention. Otherwise, her feet hadn't yet felt fragile footing. Meanwhile, Steve and Bucky both made the most of their own tumultuous existence. Bucky was probably her first taste of the unpredictable. And he must have tasted sweet.

Bucky was clearly just waiting for her to notice the bitter aftertaste.

"You do, Bucky. You deserve to be happy," Steve assured him.

Bucky nodded his head. His lips were firm and his jaw was especially sharp, not at all in full acceptance of the declaration. But he didn't dispute it, instead allowing the words to hang idle for too long a time until Steve was itching to repeat it, almost as if a second or third recital would make him listen and actually hear it. Steve stopped himself, realising it was pointless, but thought to assert himself again some other time. He would make Bucky believe it, even if it was the last thing he would ever do.

Grinning suddenly, Bucky took the umbrella from under Steve's arm and stabbed the handle back into the sand. Steve, too confused to question it, stood stark still and parted his lips in quiet wonderment. Before he could fathom any theories as to Bucky's intentions, Bucky grabbed him around the middle and hoisted him up over his shoulder, draping him there as if he weighed next to nothing. With one hand perched dangerously low on Steve's lower back, Bucky took up the umbrella with his other hand and began his path up the beach towards the girls. Given Steve's protests and the mass they made when combined, any persons in the way immediately moved as to avoid them. Bucky chuckled and Steve could feel his shoulders shaking with the sound.

Steve hit at Bucky's back with open palms, not that he could hurt him even if he were to beat him with clenched fists. His legs were hanging there limp, the effort it would take to kick worthless given Bucky's size and strength. No amount of physical resistance would benefit Steve any… Though never mind the humiliation of having his ass up for everyone to see, he didn't truly wish to be put down. Once the initial shock had worn off, Steve couldn't help but giggle like a ridiculous fool. He nestled his face against Bucky's skin to mask his delighted smile. Bucky truly was warm—his tan radiated heat. The once cool beads of the sea on his skin had since dried down in the breeze, though his hair, now half dry and textured, still dripped some from the ends. There was a smooth line of water down Bucky's spine and Steve traced it with his finger where he could reach, starting at the waistband of his swimwear. Steve felt Bucky shiver.

"Everyone is staring," Steve told him, finally looking up to see some curious eyes watching after them before their attention was stolen away by whatever it was they were doing before the disturbance.

"No, they're not. On a day like this? Everyone is just here for a spot of fun."

"That doesn't mean they aren't taking a moment of their time to stare."

"Oh, shush. They're glancing for a mere second."

Bucky was probably right. People were indeed looking but were also looking away again just as quickly. Barring sex or murder, they could likely get up to just about anything without being a bother. Nobody was interested in them. Everybody was lazy and lulled into contentment by the heat and the salty tang of the ocean in their noses. Nothing could truly distract from their sandcastles and ball games, hot dogs and ice cream. Steve could relish in the most welcome kind of invisibility.

"Bucky!" Daisy called as they neared. "Are you tormenting poor Steve?"

"Well, of course, I am," Bucky affirmed.

"It _is_ truly awful." Steve exaggerated a desolate sigh at the absolute hopeless situation he was in, smiling all the while.

"Set him down, you great brute," Daisy jested, "my fingers are horrendously sticky with _your_ rapidly melting ice cream. Take it before it all runs down my wrist."

Bucky did as he was told and gently set Steve down, briefly embracing his shoulders in a tight squeeze before withdrawing. He took Daisy's wrist and guided her hand up so he could lick at the ice cream cone she was holding. She wrinkled her nose in mock disgust and pushed the ice cream into his face, staining his lips and chin entirely. Bucky whined and dabbed at his face as Daisy turned her attention to Steve and handed him his own ice cream.

"Bucky told me you liked strawberry," Daisy said, somewhat inquisitive, as if unsure whether she had remembered correctly.

Steve blinked in surprise that, not only had Bucky mentioned his ice cream preferences, but Daisy had made an effort to remember and included him so kindly. He thanked her shyly and took the cone from her, quickly licking around the edges to save it from dripping and making a sticky mess. Daisy smiled gratefully and squeezed his arm.

"I like strawberry too. Bucky may tease me as much as he likes, but I'll forever defend my proclivity for it."

"I'd never tease you," Bucky interjected.

" _Never_?! Do you believe this Steve? Bucky says he would never tease me." Daisy looked at Steve imploringly.

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Steve said knowingly, having heard the same spiel of resentment for the _"inadequate"_ flavour.

He was trying to make an effort. Trying to make conversation and side with Daisy once in a while where it couldn't possibly do him any harm. It was clear Bucky wanted Steve to like her and had reservations about his relationship greatly because Steve hadn't yet warmed to her. No matter his jealousy, Steve couldn't stand to be a hindrance and thought himself cruel if he continued on this way, knowing the damage it was causing.

It was probably impossible to love her, but Steve _could_ bond over a taste for the least popular ice cream flavour. He _could_ thank her for buying him a cone and mean it. And he _could_ stand to have her touch him like this, her hand present on his arm like a vice.

Anna and Charlotte were consuming their two scoops greedily, now satisfied and amnesic, forgetting entirely about their earlier complaints and persistent begging. Shirley was stood alone under the shade of the stall roof swirling the contents of a small cup with a tiny spoon, seemingly put off either by the taste, appearance, or smell—perhaps even all three, knowing Shirley. When she noticed Steve watching her, she curled her lip and turned her back so she could finish eating safe from prying eyes. Somehow, Steve suspected she was secretly pleased to be included and was, though not exactly friends with her, at least inclined now toward Daisy.

With time, Daisy would win her over the way Steve never could.

Steve finished his ice cream and, not knowing what else to do, wiped his hands clean on his pant legs. Bucky, meanwhile, licked clean each finger in turn and Daisy followed suit, unafraid to match his dirty habits with her own. She nudged his side playfully and cocked her head in the general direction of the nearest bathrooms.

"I'll take the girls to wash up and dress."

Daisy rounded up the girls and took charge, leading them away and leaving the two boys to trail behind. Bucky made no effort to catch up with her and instead kept pace with Steve, shifting the umbrella from under his right arm to his left and back again, sometimes swinging it in a full arch that threatened to take out the eye of anyone behind them. He seemed distracted and too quiet for his usual self.

When he thought Steve wasn't looking, his fingers would brush idly at the bruising across his ribs, his touch pensive. Steve resisted the urge to touch them too with the same tentativeness the way he had done that first night—bracing Bucky the best he could as he bathed, both of them silently watching the blood wash down the drain. Steve had ignored his own soaking clothes and the faint pink stain flooding his sleeves from Bucky's skin, instead focusing on those horrid bruises. He hated them more than he hated anything else.

Steve opened his mouth to say something. Anything. To implore or to beg or to sympathise or maybe even to get angry. But then Bucky smiled and pinched Steve's arm.

"I can get dressed by myself, you know," he laughed.

Steve realised he'd followed Bucky all the way into the bathroom and he blushed awkwardly. Nodding, he stepped back and leaned against the wall, keeping his head low and arms crossed tight. His lips pursed. Maybe it was just his usual palpitations, but Steve's heart was beating especially fast and out of time. Those unspoken words lingered bitterly on the tip of his tongue and he forced himself to swallow hard against them, almost as if choking on poison. He wasn't sure how much longer he could go without answers; with the lies and the bullshit and the secrecy.

Steve walked ahead when Bucky re-emerged, and he quickened his pace to keep it that way, making no expression to the sounds of laughter behind him. He knew without looking that Daisy and Bucky were in step with each other, arms entwined and skin flush. He knew and hated it. He knew and felt so insanely lonely.

Steve was crushed by the knowledge.

It was only after they'd taken Bucky's sisters home and the three of them were back at the apartment together that Steve willed himself to look. He watched from the couch as Bucky said goodbye. From this angle, he could only see Bucky's back and Daisy's friendly smile from the doorway. He kept one hand on the doorknob, ready and waiting to close the door, and she turned her head twice towards the hallway. Bucky said goodbye without a kiss and she said goodbye without a parting hug, and then he shut the door and she was gone.

* * *

Steve was dancing… poorly, of course, to the point he could hardly call this dancing and ultimately decided not to. He was simply moving awkwardly without destination, stepping as if walking a tightrope with his shoelaces tied together. His arms, each insane with a mind of their own, didn't know what do with themselves and went from being stiff at his sides one moment, practically solidified as if frozen, to then swinging wildly the next, near hitting the nearest unfortunate souls in the face… or rather chest or stomach, given the height difference. The worst part, though, was that he was there 'not-dancing' alone. He was technically there with a date of course; a lovely girl named Bonnie whom Bucky had set him up with. But it was clear she came only as a favour to Daisy. She was only dancing in Steve's general vicinity and facing Daisy the entire time, the two girls giggling together all the while.

It was—admittedly—a humiliating affair, but Steve thought it would be more obvious and sad to be the one person standing against the wall—the loser who probably came alone to watch. Thus Steve had faced his fears and stepped out onto the floor, conducting a couple's dance entirely on his own. For just a moment, he forgot how or why he ever considered this the least embarrassing option. His awkward, jumbled moves aside, he was completely out of time. His foot would land a few too many seconds after the beat and the rest of his body would follow soon after—as if he were dancing to an entirely different tune of his own making. Just to make it worse, he was wheezing now from trying so hard to keep up with everyone else, his lungs heavy and face more than likely red in the cheeks—if not all over. He was sure people would be able to hear him breathing soon, even over the sound of live jazz. It was quite the achievement, he thought, to be louder than a chorus of instruments a mere few feet away.

Steve finally slowed and looked around, taking note of anyone that may be watching him, and was relieved when nobody seemed to be so much as looking. Even Bucky was distracted by now, his own eyes finally cast away and captured by Daisy. Steve was free, free at last to step away and cool off. Though, being both small and timid, he struggled to slip through the dancing crowd, subjecting himself to being bumped into more than a fair amount. By the time he was at the refreshments table, his toes had been stepped on a record number of times and the aching throb inside his shoes cursed him for being here.

But, once again, Bucky had asked and Steve had agreed. It was still that ridiculously simple. And Steve still felt like a complete fool for it. A nervous, lovesick fool.

Glancing behind him, Steve spotted Bucky dancing with Daisy and Bonnie. He took Daisy's hand and twirled her effortlessly before taking Bonnie by the waist and dipping her as she laughed. There Steve was, incapable of even dancing with one girl, and then there was Bucky dancing so easily with two. Most men couldn't dance with two women without accidentally colliding or stumbling over each other's feet. But Bucky wasn't one of them. He out-charmed his peers without having to try—a natural to gallant flirtations coupled with his God-given good looks. At least he was keeping his and Steve's dates occupied, protecting Bonnie from what could have been the night she was accidentally crippled by a clumsy, unpractised dancer.

Feeling sheepish, Steve got himself a drink and sipped steadily from it, taking his time, knowing he would have to reattempt a dance when he finished. If he paced himself right, he may even be able to waste the whole night finishing this one cup. Tiny sips, so miniscule he took in one drop at a time. Nobody would notice. He wouldn't be the guy all alone with his back against the wall. He would be someone taking what was probably periodic breaks to have a drink—someone perfectly normal.

He locked eyes with Bucky over the brim of his cup and he lowered it, smiling shyly. Bucky smiled back at him and gestured for him to join them, clearly with more than a little concern that maybe he wasn't having any fun. With a quick, reassuring wave to let him know he was okay, Steve turned his back to the dancefloor and pretended to focus on the refreshments table, though there were only so many interesting things to notice about a stack of napkins. He tapped his foot to the music and took another sip—another drop—from his drink.

Steve did love jazz. He thought it was well-crafted and easy to listen to, even majestic sometimes when played right, and he especially loved to hear it live. It wasn't every day that he had the opportunity. Usually, he listened to his old records, each one given to him as presents by Bucky over the years. It had become a tradition of theirs since Steve's thirteenth birthday. Living together now, their collection had become entangled—combined into one they shared. Most of it was outdated by now but he liked to listen to them.

They used to listen together a lot actually. Recently, though, Steve had often found himself sitting alone watching that needle trip over the worn grooves. He might have chosen not to, given Bucky's absence, but it somehow kept the loneliness at bay. His thoughts, usually spiralling, were soothed by it. He liked how they sounded and thinking about where they came from—thinking about who gave them to him. And, sometimes, Steve danced when no one could see him.

He would be lying if he said he didn't _want_ to dance now; a rhythm like this was impossible to ignore. But he couldn't trust his own feet not to irreparably hurt someone, so he kept to himself and settled for the foot tapping, a sway or two, and a tight grip of his cup.

"You like this song," Bucky said just beyond his shoulder, speaking up over the music.

Steve startled and he spilled some of his drink, losing some of those precious drops he was intending to savour and dedicate his time to until the night was done. He sighed and flicked his wet shoe, smiling tightly with closed lips. This was fine… it was all fine. Nobody was ever hurt by sticky shoes.

"They play it well," Steve said and nodded towards the band.

"Don't you want to dance to it?"

Bucky put a hand on Steve's shoulder—perhaps the first time they had actually _touched_ since that day on the beach with Daisy—and he looked knowingly at the dancing throng of people. He knew Steve wanted to join in. Knew that, given assurance, he wouldn't be looked at, he would be enjoying himself too.

"I'm a hazard to anyone who gets too close," Steve explained and laughed lightly. "Hell, I trip _myself_ over, let alone anyone else."

"Everyone is tripping over everyone," Bucky disagreed, "it's a small space, there are lots of people, and a bit too much alcohol in the punch… nobody minds."

Steve considered it and paid more attention, looking for any sign of these supposed tipsy missteps and distracted mistakes. It all looked so… purposeful, like every move was a premeditated decision like it was _supposed_ to happen this way. They were all laughing and smiling, their hands clasped with their partner's as they stepped from one foot to the other. Steve was sure he didn't look like that. Nothing he did looked intentional.

"Soon," Steve promised, lying both to Bucky and himself.

"Dance with us," Bucky insisted, grinning at the idea.

"I don't know, Buck…"

"Look at them," Bucky gestured to Daisy and Bonnie who were holding hands and dancing together, moving fast to the upbeat rhythm, twirling each other in turn and giggling when they made each other too dizzy. They were having fun. Steve _did_ know what fun looked like; he hadn't forgotten.

Nervous, Steve barely nodded his head and set down his drink, allowing Bucky to take him by the hand and drag him back out onto the floor. Somehow, where Steve had struggled to navigate his way through the crowd, Bucky was able to lead them right through without incident. Nobody knocked into them, nobody stood on their toes or tread on the heel of their shoes.

Like with most things, Bucky made it seem so easy.

Upon their return, Daisy and Bonnie greeted them in an excited chorus, singing some nonsense lyrics to amuse one another. They created a circle of sorts, disjointed with elbowed edges, but the floor made space for them. And they danced. After numerous pushes and some peer pressure, Steve danced. Bucky danced. They almost, given their proximity and their locked gazes, danced with each other.

Suddenly, dancing didn't seem so frightening anymore.

Steve didn't even mind dancing with Daisy, who took his hand and made him spin, laughing graciously and applauding him when he steadied himself. He smiled, cheeks pink and eyes bright, the music a comfortable beat in his shallow lungs. When Bucky elatedly took his waist in his strong and assured hands and dipped him, just as he had done with Bonnie but… _more_ , Steve was dumbstruck.

This was what it felt like to dance with a partner.

The moment lingered for a moment and then ended as the song finished, the band resetting themselves for the tune to follow. Bucky lifted Steve back up into him, back to what he probably thought were two steady feet, but Steve's legs were actually shaking. Jittery with the nerves usually reserved for stomach butterflies… but, then, they were there too; fluttering inside and making him feel both light and queasy.

"Thanks for the dance," Bucky said in a hushed tone.

Steve couldn't be entirely certain who he was speaking to—him or both of the girls. Either way, Steve was too stunned to ask and too dizzy to thank him. He just smiled, the edges of his lips fluttering up bashfully as he averted his nervous gaze. A part of him wanted to ask for another dance… the bigger part of him wanted to ask for a dance with him alone, just the two of them, maybe something slower this time. But of course, Steve didn't ask. And he hadn't the chance even if he was stupid enough to try.

Bucky disappeared back into the crowd again, shouting distantly that he was getting them all drinks. Bonnie and Daisy were breathily speaking into each other's ears, their feet still moving in constant refusal to pause for even a second. Not wanting to be a burden, Steve automatically took a few timid steps back to flee but both girls quickly pulled at his sleeves and protested wildly.

"Steven Rogers, I simply forbid you from leaving us," Daisy decreed.

"Are you—" Steve hesitated.

"I'm sure. And if you dare doubt me I will have Bucky punish you on our behalf. I'm too sensitive to humiliate you myself, but he isn't."

Steve knew that wasn't entirely true, but decided to appease her and allowed them to drag him back in closer until he could feel the material of their dresses brushing against his legs. He swayed with them with his hands deep in his coat pockets and picked habitually at the inner lining, pushing each finger through the ever-growing holes and pinching any single thread he could find. It was easy to become lost in it, his mind focusing on his pockets rather than the place he was in and the things he was supposed to be doing. He was so lost, in fact, that he startled when a hand holding a cup appeared over his shoulder, Bucky's wrist nestled against the crook of his neck until he turned.

"I think the Huscan brothers have been at the punch again. It's probably more liquor now than it is punch," Bucky said.

"Because spiking the bowl once wasn't enough," Bonnie chortled.

"Can't trust those boys to have even an ounce of responsibility, but we can trust them to bring something truly daring to the party," Daisy said earnestly.

Steve thanked him in awe and took the cup. Bucky passed another to Daisy and warned her to take slow sips. She rolled her eyes and brought the cup to her lips, her eyes widening and nose screwing up at the foul taste. Coughing, she gave up the cup to Bonnie who was making grabby hands for it and she snickered at her same disgusted reaction to the toxicity. Curious, Steve tasted it for himself and immediately felt as though he had been struck hard in the face. He blinked hard and fast a few times and let out a breath before drinking again. Somehow, with a cup in his hand and no other place to put it, Steve always felt inclined to drink the contents, no matter at what pace.

Bucky drank, for lack of a better word, easily—his eyes watered but he tossed it back to avoid tasting it for too long a time. By doing so, he was surely making himself remarkably sick. Steve already felt queasy himself and he'd barely had anything. They continued to pass the two full cups between them, all inching in closer and closer until they had formed some ungainly mass of tipsy youths in the middle of a dancefloor. It wasn't long until Bonnie rested her head on Daisy's shoulder and leaned into her side, allowing some of her weight to fall on Daisy's arm braced around her waist. Steve kindly took the cup from her before she could think to drink more. Of course, this caused a whole new dilemma; Steve now had two cups and hadn't an idea what to do with them. Daisy had some time ago taken to gripping the cuff of his sleeve, her fingers pinched tight and tucked inside to touch the skin beneath. She didn't seem to be aware of it at all and he didn't quite know how to broach the subject to her and therefore didn't try. He was planted there—trapped by Daisy—with those two cups and sore feet and a distinct burning sensation at the back of his throat from the practically acidic alcohol.

"I'm having such a glorious time, Steve. Aren't you?" Daisy asked.

Steve hummed in agreement. His tongue felt far too thick and numb for words, but Daisy seemed to understand him just fine without them. She clumsily patted Steve's arm with her gaze lost towards Bonnie, her hand missing him a few times before hitting its mark. _'There, there,'_ she seemed to say, as if entirely aware of his susceptibility to liquor. Though she didn't seem to be fairing all that well herself. Her movements had become noticeably graceless, still insistent not to stop entirely. She was swaying heavily now without any regard for the music. Bucky was leaning on Steve and took one of the cups from him. He emptied the remainder of it before pinching it in one hand, his thumbnail picking at the brim idly as he spoke softly to Daisy. Steve, perhaps stupidly, sipped again at the remaining contents of his cup. There was so little left over it seemed impertinent not to finish it.

"Steve is such a… unique dancer. Don't you agree?" Daisy asked.

"You mean unique as in undignified, yes?" Steve scoffed.

Bucky smirked and tried to mask his laughter with a cough, but of course, Steve knew better and playfully jabbed him in the ribs. He knew he had looked awkward and uncoordinated and entirely out of place, but they had _all_ danced carelessly. In their kindness, they had moved in time with him rather than expecting him to keep up with them. They had spared him some dignity and almost seemed relieved for it. Bucky especially. He had loosened his tie and let go of something truly weighty—whatever burden it was he had been carrying since that night on the docks. His face, finally free of abrasions and bruising, had come alight and his gaze was pure.

"I didn't say anything!" Bucky squeezed Steve's shoulder.

"You didn't have to, I could tell what you were thinking," Steve cocked his eyebrow.

"That's not true. If you must know, I was thinking that you're a truly glorious dancer, stumbles and all."

"Somehow I don't feel your sincerity," Steve smiled and took another drink.

"No. Steve. It was genuinely a pleasure... dancing with you," Bucky said softly and averted his eyes.

Bucky suddenly spotted something over Daisy's shoulder and he quickly dismissed himself, his hand lingering on Steve's shoulder for a few moments before leaving him. Steve watched—liquor staining his upper lip as he stood too dumbfounded to wipe it dry on his sleeve—for as long as he could before he lost Bucky in the crowd, and then the girls took hold of either arm, not paying attention to Bucky's absence as they urged Steve to join them for another dance.

He tried, but his heart wasn't truly in it. He kept trying to see Bucky, but he was nowhere to be found. It was only a couple songs later that Steve finally excused himself, genuinely needing a break since he found himself entirely out of breath again and had in fact stepped on Daisy and Bonnie's toes multiple times, surely hurting them—even if they were too drunk to feel it. He made his way back to the refreshments table and finally found Bucky standing in a dark corner deep in discussion with someone he couldn't recognise, at first, hidden in the shadows.

Upon closer inspection, he realised it was Jackson.

Steve hadn't notice Jackson come in and couldn't even be sure if he had actually been there all along. There were so many people in attendance, so many faces blurring into the next with the heat and excitement and, admittedly, the excessively imbibed laced punch. But Steve _knew_ this face. Surely he would have recognised him had he been there long enough. Steve had to assume Jackson had only just arrived. He didn't look at all sweaty or winded, though he did appear drunk as he chugged from his drink and laughed at something Bucky said. As Steve neared, the more he recognised the signs of mild intoxication; the unsteady feet and the distracted turning of his head as he tried, and failed, to fully take in his surroundings. But there was something else too. Something unrestrained. Something unhindered. Steve noticed it in his smile. And then he saw Bucky reflect it.

"Steve!" Daisy exclaimed and skipped toward him, her hand still holding Bonnie's.

"You left us to our last dance alone," Bonnie accused light-heartedly. Now off the dance floor, she winced and took off her shoes, sighing in relief as her flat feet touched the floor. "Be a dear and hold my shoes?"

Steve, dazed, took her shoes from her and held them limply at his side. The music started up again and he had to listen hard over the ring of instruments to hear the girls asking eagerly to go home, their feet sore and tongues thick with booze. Steve nodded and looked at Bucky one last time, watching as Daisy danced up to him and leaned up on her toes for a kiss. Bucky gently held her arms and kissed her in return, eyes closed and touch receptive to her advance. She melted easily into his side and stayed there, her arm around him. For once, Steve was so relieved she was there. He was unsure and untrusting of Jackson, given the state Bucky returned home in the last time they worked together and didn't want the two of them left alone.

Bonnie tugged on Steve's sleeve, looking for his attention.

"I don't feel so well," she complained quietly.

"I'll take you home," he assured after a brief moment of hesitation.

Steve frowned and took her arm in his as he guided her outside and hailed for a taxi. They clambered into the backseat together as she babbled endlessly, her breath smelling strongly of alcohol. Somehow he had missed how often one of them drifted away only to return with refilled cups before the punch had been strongly spiked. Those last two cups had been the final nail in the coffin. Steve, entirely distracted by the excitement of it all, had taken turns sipping whatever they passed him, and he only just realised he was drunk, not tipsy. A slow kind of drunk. His responses were delayed and his thoughts failed to process properly, each taking too long to come to him and then failing to leave again. He was hung up about Bucky—unhappy about leaving him behind with that brute. He was sure now that Jackson knew what had happened to Bucky… hell, he may have even taken part in it himself.

Steve didn't like him and wanted to go back to say it directly to his stupid face, but he was numb in the car, sitting there quietly as the world outside passed in a blur. The longer he sat, no longer dancing and quick on his feet, the faster it started to sink in. Everything was hitting him so hard and so fast until he was a prisoner of the tide. He could do nothing as drunkenness consumed him worse than it had in a long, long time.

Steve was blindsided.

When the taxi stopped at Bonnie's apartment building first, he slurred a polite goodnight to Bonnie, trying again to remember why he was there with her in the first place. Thinking of her, Steve was again reminded of Daisy and he had to think long and hard about why he was supposed to hate her. She was there, after all. Daisy was there and she would keep Bucky out of trouble. For the first time, Steve really, really wanted to thank her. Bonnie bid him goodnight with a glorious smile and then struggled to push the car door closed behind her.

Steve waited for her to go inside before instructing the driver to go. Arriving home, he tread slowly and unsteadily up those unbearable six flights of stairs and stepped slowly into the apartment, feeling the walls rather than turning on any lights. There wasn't much to their place and so he was actually able to navigate his way entirely through touch, flakes of paint coming off under his fingers as he ran them along the walls and doorframe. He was startled momentarily by the brush of fabric across his face but then realised it was only the sheet he had hung up through the centre of their bedroom. The sheet to protect his jealous eyes from seeing Bucky with someone other than him. To block out the image of Bucky and Daisy together in bed. Of course, it wouldn't block out the noise, but Steve hadn't heard anything incriminating so far. He had found reason enough to be out of the house more often than he was home and had been lucky to avoid it thus far. Though just the thought of it now—too drunk to think of anything else—made Steve miserable.

He groaned dejectedly and flopped inelegantly onto his bed fully clothed, clumsily kicking off his shoes and listening as they thunked on the floor. He was going to leave his socks on for now though his feet felt too warm. Reaching them and pulling them off successfully seemed a real distant idea, and his chances didn't seem sure enough to be worth attempting. The same went for his other clothes; his more formal attire including suspenders with hooks that were really digging into him. Steve decided to make do with it and sort himself out in the morning, which he supposed wasn't actually far away at all.

He thought this as he started to doze.

Morning wasn't far away, not far at all.

* * *

Steve woke next to heavy feet stumbling over the floorboards. There were shoes being kicked off in the doorway, the thump of weight against either the floor or wall and Bucky's muffled laughter. Steve, exhausted and confused, sighed and closed his eyes again, breathing heavily into his own pillow. He hadn't any idea what time it was and in fact barely even remembered getting home or going to bed. His body urged him to sleep, muscles aching and head swimming and tongue thick still. And he felt inclined to give into it. He hadn't gotten under the covers when first falling into bed, so he reached for them now and tugged clumsily to get them up over himself. They were so cool and so relaxingly heavy and encasing that Steve brought them up over his head and experienced a complete and wonderful darkness.

There were more sounds of stumbling in the living room and then the clatter of… something. Steve couldn't be sure what, but he couldn't really bring himself to care either. There wasn't much breakable in their home so there wasn't anything to worry himself over, no fragile thing that could upset him were he to lose it.

The sound of shuffling feet neared, two sets of them, Steve discerned… and then he was made a little more alert.

From under the covers, unmoving, Steve listened to Bucky's hushed tone as he said something like "miss me"… or maybe it was "kiss me". Steve figured it was the latter as he made out the heated breaths between passionate kisses. He could tell it was passionate from the moans. Soft at first, then a little louder as Bucky and Daisy finally made it into the room. Now listening intensely, Steve paired actions with subtle sounds, like hands pulling at clothing and the clink of Bucky's suspenders being unsnapped. It was already too much; the kissing and the moaning and the grabbing at one another… but then came the unzipping. Two short zips.

Steve opened his eyes now, but remained under his blankets, frozen in place and unwilling to look. He had heard two zips being undone, and now more unsnapped suspenders. Listening closer now, Steve realised, horrified, that not once had he heard a particularly feminine gasp or moan.

Bucky wasn't with Daisy.

Finally, Steve peered out from under his blanket. But, of course, his earlier efforts to create privacy hid Bucky's partner from him. Though, it wasn't hard to guess. Steve just desperately didn't want to believe it.

All he could see was the faintest of shadows through the thin, white sheet. A bare outline of two bodies together. Bucky was murmuring again, asking him—begging him—to touch him, feel him, kiss him, take him. And whoever was with him—Steve inwardly sighed, chest made tight and eyes burning—Jackson, obliged.

There was a sudden silence and then a distinct gasp, followed by a pleasured groan. Steve listened to Bucky's breath hitch as the bedsprings squeaked, quietly at first, but sometimes louder, with flesh against flesh. As Steve heard it, he couldn't help but picture what was happening and he was dizzied by it. He gripped his pillow, urging himself to remain still and quiet despite his every instinct to make them stop. It wasn't him, Steve thought despairingly; _'it's not me.'_

Bucky liked to curse during sex, Steve realised. He could tell Bucky was restraining himself, keeping his voice at a whisper with a drunken understanding that someone else was close enough to hear. Sometimes he became muffled as if speaking into his pillow, trying so hard to silence himself. But those words were being drawn from him nevertheless. Bucky just couldn't help himself. He was lost to the throes of passion, to something intense and real and inconceivable. Jackson could make him feel that way—the way Steve wanted to but had been too cowardly to even try. And Steve hated him for it. His previous fears about Jackson turned into untethered envy and rage. And he felt like a complete fool for not seeing this sooner—though realistically he knew there was no way he could have known.

Despairing already, Steve's heart suddenly felt enormously heavy. He still had his own selfish vendetta against Daisy—a lingering bitterness and unease—but he thought that she deserved far better than this. Steve's jealousy didn't change the fact that she was nothing other than sweet and considerate. It didn't change that she was a person with profound thoughts and feelings, and a whole complicated and wonderful life that should be treated with utmost respect and loyalty. Bucky had hurt Steve… but he had _betrayed_ Daisy. Steve never would have thought he was capable of doing such a thing. He never believed Bucky had it in him; even whilst intoxicated he always maintained a level of respectability and logic and knew better than to behave in such an abhorrent manner. His inexperience with relationships didn't even begin to excuse his unfaithfulness.

Steve was shaking. Every instinct urged him to stop it, but his immense anger and drunken confusion prevented it. It slowed him and kept him in place; a trembling heap beneath his mass pile of blankets. He was swallowed by the dark. He was so small and hopeless and void of any presence at all. He was helpless and stupid and desperate to beat his fists bloody on something. Anything. Everything. One hand clutched tight at his pillow and the other clenched into a fist.

Finally, with a few final groans and muffled curses, the two men stopped. Finished.

Steve didn't even want to think about it.

But of course, he couldn't be rid of what he'd witnessed. He couldn't free himself from what he had overheard. Nor could he ignore the implications or pretend that the oncoming consequences weren't about to shatter their worlds. Steve bit his fist hard to keep quiet though he doubted his lost mind could fathom how to form words. He was listening. Closely. But there was nothing to hear, at least at first.

Steve no longer had any concept of time. When he eventually heard bed springs as their weight moved and settled again with some quiet whispering—Jackson's voice too soft for Steve to understand—it felt so fast and immediate, but so horrendously slow at the same time. He couldn't think whether it had been a matter of seconds or minutes or hours since he'd heard them last. His heart was pounding so fast that his chest was starting to hurt the way it sometimes did. He placed his hand over it and felt the violent thrum beneath his jittery fingers—he was still working to cease the trembling. This was unbearable. To just lay here like this, knowing what he knew.

Surely he was supposed to say or do something?

Surely he was supposed to clear his throat and announce his presence, or viciously pull Jackson from Bucky's bed to beat him senseless… or maybe Steve was supposed to beat Bucky instead? He felt pain at the thought… a stabbing unwillingness at the very idea. He could never hurt Bucky, no matter his wrongdoings. Though he feared that maybe Bucky deserved it and maybe it would be wrong of Steve not to.

Before he could dwell on that thought for too long, he jumped as someone sat up from the bed and put on their pants, their zip going up and belt buckle clanging, before feeling their way to the door. Steve listened to their hand brushing against the wall and the unstable thuds of their feet. Inexplicably, with no intention yet in mind, Steve got up and followed. He was also heavy footed and lumbering from drinking, but was rested enough now to navigate through the dark until he could see the early beginnings of daylight through their lonesome window. He stared at the figure caught in that small sliver of light and decided they were too tall and broad to be Bucky.

"Jackson," Steve murmured. His mouth felt dry.

The figure stalled and turned.

"Steve?"

"Yes."

Jackson hesitated. Steve pictured his mouth opening and closing like a fish suffocating out of water.

"I didn't—."

"Know I was here?" Steve asked. "Or didn't know I was awake?"

Jackson approached him slowly until they were both enveloped by the dark. Steve could only faintly see him at all now—a pitch of black darker than the space around it. He remembered once being intimidated by the size of him, the way he so easily towered over him and made him seem so small. But Steve wasn't afraid now.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?" Jackson asked weakly, clearly terrified by the prospect.

"I don't know," Steve shrugged.

"Please. You… you know what happens to people like me… to people like Bucky."

"I know. The same thing you did to him at the docks, if not something worse," Steve said, unable to refrain from this accusation he'd been so desperate to make for so long.

"I didn't do that. I tried to stop them, I really did. But there was only so much I could say without giving them a reason to beat me up too. And I tried to warn Bucky to stay away but he didn't listen."

Steve clenched his jaw and hung his head down. His eyes were boring into the floorboards beneath his feet as if expecting them to collapse at the weight of this burden, but they remained solid and unmoving. His legs felt absent with a sluggish disconnect from the rest of his body as if they did not belong to him. But they were there just as they had always been. He had to trust that they'd carry him now, just as they had before.

"You should have tried harder," Steve muttered finally and looked up at him again.

"Steve—"

"I was there to help him stand in the shower as I washed the blood from his skin. I was there when his stomach was in so much pain that he regurgitated everything he ate. I'm the one who wrapped his ribs and bandaged the lesions on his face. I'm the one who watched as he slept for two days after it happened, and I saw the agony in his eyes whenever the pain woke him. He got worse before he got better…"

"There was nothing—,"

"You never came to visit him. Never asked if he was okay. As I understand it, you stood aside and let them do that to him but then felt you had the right to love him later when it was convenient for you. Because he's well enough by now that you don't have to pretend to care about him. You can bed him and leave him without feeling any obligation to stay."

"Steve—,"

"He has a girlfriend. Did you know that?"

"Yes. Daisy. I know—,"

"But you didn't care for her feelings either?" Steve asked, fuming.

He had expected Jackson to retreat by now. For him to slowly step backward and away until the door against his back presented an emergency exit through which he could escape. Steve expected him to surrender and leave without argument or a final attempt at self-defence. For him to just turn his back without any regard for the person he would be leaving behind in the bed he had just left. Instead, Jackson came closer until he and Steve could make out the bare features of each other's faces. Steve blinked. He was made uncomfortable by the proximity but refused to withdraw first.

"Daisy knows, Steve," Jackson murmured.

"What?" Steve's stomach twisted and his chest constricted tight.

"She knows about us. About Bucky and me."

"This wasn't—" Steve swallowed hard and tried again, "this wasn't the first time?"

Jackson shook his head timidly and went to reach for Steve's shoulder before thinking better of it and letting his arm fall slack at his side. He brought his other hand to his face and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. His knuckles brushed across the same lips that had been on Bucky's only moments before. The same lips that had pressed warm and hungry against Bucky's skin, the taste of him lingering sweetly there for Jackson to revisit later with his tongue. The same lips that had—apparently— done this before.

"How long?" Steve asked against the lump in his throat. His skin was burning as the anger rushed to the surface.

Jackson sighed. "I don't know, Steve… I mean, two weeks? Maybe a little longer?"

Steve nodded in grudging acceptance. He knew Jackson wasn't lying. No matter how desperately Steve wanted to disprove it or imagine it away, the truth was presented naked and undeniable before him. He couldn't dismiss it just because it was impossibly painful to hear. It did no good to barricade himself behind a wall of ignorance or to try and explain away the things he had learned. Bucky had kept secrets from him—so many secrets. Things he had battled with entirely on his own without trusting Steve to love him anyway.

And that's what hurt the most.

"You should go," Steve said.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?" Jackson asked warily.

Steve felt a brief moment of temptation at the thought of acting out so maliciously, or rather just making an empty threat he already knew he would never act upon. But it was unnecessary and intensely unkind, even just to pretend. The fear of it would be too severe for anyone and it wasn't within Steve to inflict it on someone, not even Jackson.

"No. No, I wouldn't do that to you. Or to Bucky."

Jackson shifted from one foot to the other in distress before deciding that it was enough. It was the closest thing to a promise he was ever going to get from Steve and he knew better than to ask for more. He wasn't in any position to fight or bargain or even beg the way he might have done otherwise. Especially not now with his skin probably still warm from Bucky's embrace, the scent of him lingering in the clothes Bucky had held and taken off. Jackson's truest desire and ultimate fear had been exposed suddenly without warning and he wasn't sure whether he ought to fight for it or flee from it… maybe he wasn't sure if Bucky was worth the suffering. Jackson didn't know Bucky the way Steve did.

Steve knew Bucky was forever worth it, no matter the consequences.

Jackson gathered his shoes and left without pausing to put them on, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. Once he was gone, Steve let out a breath and peered over his shoulder at the doorway of their shared bedroom. It felt different now. Impersonal. Invaded. When he walked back inside and moved the sheet to go back to his side of the room, he paused at the sight of Bucky naked in his bed. The bed which was too small for him now. It was the same one he'd had as a kid and passed all the way down to his youngest sister before reclaiming it and bringing it here. Even half curled into a ball his feet hung off the edge and his body filled it so entirely. Despite this, he somehow looked remarkably smaller… Naïve. Innocent. Vulnerable.

Steve wondered if Bucky was ashamed of who he was.

Bucky had reason to be terrified. He would be stupid not to be overwhelmed by the reality of who he was and the things he wanted and the people he was destined to love. The world was many things, but it wasn't always kind. It wasn't always fair. People could be impossibly cruel and it sometimes took sacrifices to survive them. Bucky couldn't love freely or speak openly, he couldn't force change even if he pushed with everything he had—even with Steve pushing desperately alongside him. He hadn't any choice except to live in secret or repress it and bury it so deep that it crushed him from the inside out. Steve knew Bucky couldn't take it—nobody should have to endure such a choice.

Steve didn't blame Bucky. He couldn't resent him for keeping this from him. But he couldn't deny that it hurt him to be left so entirely in the dark and he started to worry that maybe he hadn't opened his arms wide enough or expressed his compassion loud enough. He thought he hadn't carved his promises deep enough to leave telling scars. Steve hadn't been clear. His words were merely a fogged window that Bucky hadn't been able to see clearly through.

Steve had to clear that window. He had to shatter the glass if that's what it took.

It was the two of them, after all. 'Till the end of the line.

* * *

Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you are enjoying this so far. Let me know your thoughts in the comments as I always greatly appreciate reading them :) xoxo


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